Three Poems by Adam Trawick



by blood reading,

try drums and buy into its fabulous generation.

gunslingers only give
the mans' down beloved wrong idea,

running till clicks.

fingerprints and debris are tools.

hardly wooden stanzas
                                        , what at breath

for a think-skull
from which other pretty children keep nothing

                                        ; maybe a poem.



untouched is the black
within night
                         , splashing

to a nostalgic floor

                         on you

, if to it the latest mind knew convection. 


"love is where a blue chainsaw shit"

documenting hours' accidental teardrops
& going off to binge on a
fuck-load of fog cigarettes in hopes that
one might be a hiding collage
seeing where page pieces got uncovered
with victorian apathy;
deleted before someone sleeps in glass chaos.

these times that comment on blue-minded waistlines thank warhol.

breathe vermouth.
edit hard intention.

long were the pieces in that fraud month
of televised illusion.

riff the wild whole.
everything whole is a burden.
what this be is a heavy thing.

the thread moving these things splashes
pop-rendition. further juxtaposing importance.

have pride in kind sleep
where stars did tough the red hours
in an embrace of knuckles.

& now the blossoms buckle for
a poetry dream gone checkerboard.
where a vase is just hours of
babble-talk with no schemata
& sleep usually is a whisper.
tired as a vintage idea.
& not a teardrop falls when love nestles
tonight under a joy-blanket
where a blue chainsaw shit.