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Poetry: Joe Cervelin

Writing Contest home

Joe Cervelin, Tupper Lake NY
The Writing Contest for Young and Adult Writers
Runner up in Category: Poetry Age 12-20

Undisputed Tribute

Matthew Logan Brown:
jabbing with the throat and face and chords
the way you do with those "friendly" punches
when propelled by alcohol and adrenaline
and midnight and the omelettes I'll cook
once we both settle down.
And even better,
the way laughter plays you
at least once a week.

And of course you drag us in like a drug,
no side-effects except pains in the ribs,
laughter throwing you around the room
and hallway and parking lot
with great stage theatrics,
Leaning back your spine cartoon-phallically,
then dropping, raising, rolling along the carpet
or grass like any Real Rockstar.

We sang "Under the Bridge," well, under the bridge
on the way to the bar and back
until it became a premeditated memory,
but in the months since this,
while I sit further than any echo
can carry those quick steps,
memory has remixed it quite nicely,
made it more natural, again.

Matthew Logan Brown,
aka Fight Club, aka Frusciante,
let's not forget Brown Sugar Sex Magis:
more nichnames have never been known
to any man…even a prize fighter.

Tones of Hoon

For Shannon Hoon, lead singer of Blind Melon

Shannon non non non
You've got more groove boy
Than Axl's ja na na na na na na

If only your notes oats oats
—sewn like nature's collages—
could paste the cracks in yer

just as you've gone and done for others
mortared inside their dancing and
wiggling bones and hair

that magic number of voice
flossing jiggly frames along
every line of the road

lash out those chords boy
who laser-zap cancerous emotion
—a concert in the clouds—

coming to us live through these speakers
while you twist your tongue I halos
about a soul one

if you didn't hear under the music
your mother said you're singing
with the angels now

though we know not solely for them
but some of the little devils down here

Until the Sun

My eyeballs are as round as this world
and have every much as right to spin:
smooth starry staring chasing:
alliteration licking like a tongue
after the next world.

I came this close to laughing forever,
the way the penhead (NOW!)
shakes its little inky
hips for me.

I came this close to laughing forever,
dark rich odorous umbilical fluid filling
the pages, preserving like formaldehyde
but better and not as bitter
and this headband is
hugging my SOOOUULLL
this headband is
is this hugging my

It hugs almost as good as you,
materialistic maybe,
certainly tired and cinnamony
and lavaly, my eyes have
every right to be as round
as the world, rolling,
as round as the world, rolling,
natural, good fetal love,
natural nicotine addiction
eventually perpetual perceptual
intellectual getting carried away
and kidnapped
by the thoughts
I thought
I thought
upon a midspring morning's dream.

The smell of feet,
the rub of jeans,
the smell I find
sometime almost near my breath,
yes this is the
honesty you lean your
head forward for.

   Not trying to conquer,
   just join.
   Yes this is the honesty
you lean your head forward
for. I came this
close to leaning forward

like in a place in a dream
where you wait to walk the treadmill
of your blues and browns. Because we're dreaming together,
which you can't rationalize
or experience once you realize.

Not supporting condoning
anything here except myself
and you, not a bad model role
model role model role
just a good egoist,
mirror pinching my cheeks all
outer-body and reflective
and better than songs as camp,
damp, warm, my eyeballs,
while you reflect my smile.

And no matter which way they I
turn, into, I'll still see you,
pulling me into something great,
which I don't yet understand,
leaning forward, but maybe
something I can't
only as rational
      as the world spinning,
spinning, rolling, tolling, spinning
      almost forever except

for the occasional eclipse.

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