Thursday, January 29, 2009

see you in Berlin, Bex

(this poem – what some might call a broem: poem written f'r my bro – was given to Beckett on a tag attached to a key and a pair of quality handcuffs. It's probably the strangest going away present I've ever given anyone)

safeguarding your preeminent residence
for Beckett Hills

forgo the castle, freak every muzzle & Tet. Triumph of the boot! Triumph of the face! Triumph of YouTube! Fortification, said the baby-mama, releases the individual from fear, yet facilitates the forgetting. Now we remember how to implement the plan: Secretly collect metal grocery carts, pile them in the garage, & alkalize their carriages into a fence of heritage & rebates. Stockpile tuna fish, black powder, & dry humps; lock them in the cellar of your jeans. Invent the silent explosion. Chew an entire pack of Trident & stretch the flavorless dermis over our faces like deathmasks. A double-barrel in every wardrobe. Birdshot spares the bassinets. Soundproofing is everywhere – just look. Triumph of fetishes! Triumph of handcuffs! Triumph of the widow learning to Jet Ski! & here we are, in the garage again, studying the backs of our hands. No drywall on the planet quiet the pinprick


Adam R. said...

Your poem is always exciting.
You look the same but in that picture Beckett looks younger.

Justin Sirois said...

Thank you, bud. If we can make poems exciting, then we've done our civil service.

christy said...

I can't begin to understand what that was about (obviously inside jokes), but I am happy that my precious baby boy had such a talented, wonderful friend during his stay in the murder capital. I hope he is half as lucky in the land of schnitzel and neo-nazis.
Love, the original babymama

Justin Sirois said...

All poetry is a miserable inside joke, aint it?