October 4-10, 2010: Patrick Kent and A.B. Datta

Patrick Kent
savoysavvy@gmail.com 

 

Bio (auto)

Patrick Kent is a poet and singer/songwriter from Seattle, WA Following a brilliant academic career at the University of Washington spent growing facial hair in acting studios and carpeted piano rooms, he was eventually thrown off campus with a very useful undergraduate degree in poetry writing This empowered him to secure jobs making waterskis and diabetic blood blotters Since then he has made numerous Tour de Force appearances in his own journals, and gouged insufferably sardonic lyrics into a score of helpless melodies Companies keep hiring him to write software, despite his complete ignorance of math Modulus is the intersection of two streets?

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Patrick Kent and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Magical Poets

Oh! Those magical people! Those poets!
They cluster and clump You will see them pressed together
.like a wad of wet ruminants An English sheepdog could not herd them tighter .Lean in, hear them
Snort and snuffle On damp mornings, it’s all too common!
.And squelching You’ll definitely hear that It’s the sound made by every one of their mouths
Suckling greedily on her neighbor’s ear

Bound

I’ve written too much I’m immobilized by words I’m a man buried up to the neck in mud I can’t move I’m fixed by what I’ve said In notebooks and journals,
in lyrics and letters,
in stories and diatribes and late-night emails,
in instant messages and in texts
I’ve written too much
— and especially to You When I read a journal entry
dated months before I somewhat contrived
(let’s be honest, outright fomented) a breakup
When I read, “I have been very happy with her ”
What do I
do with that?
These records are permanent The paper doesn’t yellow enough;
it doesn’t yellow into illegibility These journals don’t get stolen or burned or lost or
misplaced in storage or
jammed into a box of dog-eared, pulp-fiction paperbacks No, they sit right out on the bookshelf Worst of all memory gets maudlin It won’t stop on its sick mission of
dredging for detritus,
for flotsam and jetsam,
for all the baubles in the wreckage of life
it deems instructive for my soul
to review and remember It needn’t trouble itself I can’t forget I’m fixed by my words They’re industrial cement
laid bomb-shelter thick In notebooks and journals,
in lyrics and letters,
in stories and diatribes and late-night emails,
in bill margins and business card whitespace,
on beer coasters and the back of receipts I’ve written too much
— and especially to You

Watching Movies Alone on a Monday Night

i’m watching movies alone on a monday night
watching movies alone
on a monday
night watching
movies
alone on a monday
night
the laptop window is showing
a movie about alcohol
it’s a movie about an alcoholic cop
it’s a dark movie i’ve seen ten times before
on the armrest is a cheese
and on the floor is a wine
the movie is playing in the window behind my notepad window
shining eerie, blueish light over my arms
making my blonde arm hairs glow
it’s talking wallpaper
low murmurs of conversation that spill over
my tapping fingers
it’s like sitting at an intimate dinner, the third party
denting the tablecloth with jutting knees
sitting between the man and the woman, quietly, eating dinner
unnoticed, respectful
comforted
by the proximity of their voices, comforted by utter invisibility
like a ghost sitting down quietly next to
his living wife
it’s a
false life filling the room
a false life breathing helium lift into real life
a contentment
i’m sitting in while i am
watching movies
alone
on a monday
night watching movies
alone on a
monday night watching
movies alone
on a monday night

 

 

_______________________________
 

 

 

Bio (auto)

A.B Datta lives in Bombay, India and is reading for his degree in literature His earlier poems have been published in platform and included in the anthology a posy of poesy, his short fiction had been shortlisted for the IndiaWriting short-fiction contest and is forthcoming in the medulla review, among others He also edits nether, an independent arts and literary print magazine

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by A.B. Datta and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

After bukowski

I’m working real hard
on my resume
here in earth So when I meet you
mr bartender of hell,
you will let me
run a tab
and some nights
we could both get wasted
go over to heaven
and piss all over
their curtains

When he wakes up

The shit woke up this morning
came to the table
Picked up the telephone
And eating from my breakfast
screamed
“it’s still night
No one understands
They’ve got to keep doing things
Pack the bin
carve up their teeth
Wear something thick
Go anywhere
Get tired Forget about it
The shapes are done They’ve just left a light on
Somewhere
And now can’t find it or
Put it off “