Category Archives: Poetry

“Clara Bow is In Your Face but You Can’t Grab Her” – Poetry by Joseph P. O’Brien

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, , , , ,

ClaraBowBoxFrom our Summer 2016 issue, “Clara Bow is In Your Face but You Can’t Grab Her” is Joseph P. O’Brien‘s poetic tribute to the original “It Girl.”

{ X }

YOU CAN FEEL HER, though you don’t really see her
today. (If you do, it’s probably Betty Boop anyway.)
But when we talk about “It,” we talk about Clara.
All the stars and starlets since just play a game
of tag she started. What is IT? IT’s what the French
call “I don’t know what,” but cutting out
all the bullshit in the middle.

It’s being born in a Brooklyn heat wave, the caboose in a train
of miscarriages, looking death in the face and winking.
It’s growing up with girls maligning your poor clothes,
so you hide inside sweaters and hang with the boys
(your famous right arm could lick any one of ’em)
until your womanhood makes boyhood impossible.

It’s keeping warm with your mom on cold nights
by crying in each other’s arms, until you wake to a butcher
knife at your throat– epilepsy induced psychosis,
the doctors say when dad commits mom, and eventually
it kills her. It’s calling your mourning relatives ‘hypocrites’
at mom’s funeral right before you jump into her grave.

It’s finding romance, nobility, and glamour on the silver screen,
but thinking the actors queer & stilted, not at all how you’d do it,
so you make your bedroom a one-woman circus, star
in your own mirror movies, til Hollywood can no longer ignore
your genuine spark, your divine fire, and you steal the
show as an undercover tomboy. It’s never facing a means to pretend,
no secrets from the world, it’s trusting through dangerous eyes. Continue reading “Clara Bow is In Your Face but You Can’t Grab Her” – Poetry by Joseph P. O’Brien →

“After Lincoln, Nebraska” – Poetry by Devin Kelly

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, , , , , ,
Nebraska on the Plain - Albert Bierstadt, 1911
Nebraska, On the Plain – Albert Bierstadt, 1863

“After Lincoln, Nebraska” is one of two haunting yet beautiful Springsteen-inspired poems that Devin Kelly contributed to our Summer 2016 issue.

{ X }

THROUGH THE BADLANDS WE KILLED
& made our killing into love.

That time I went, sawed-off,
through the back door while you

charmed the checkout clerk
for some bread. I want to say

love’s real fun, but I don’t know
what came first – that smile

you cheeked while I peeked down
your blouse to find the wad of bills

you robbed like the sunlight stolen
in your hair,  or the kiss of your knee on

mine as we drove all night under
big moon & stars & some

good or evil god. We was something
else, road kill resurrected in dust

& the light of blue sky. I deserve
the chair for all the killing I’ve done,

but there was that day in Missoula
where you took the green you’d been

keeping & bought me a suit all paisley
& pink & used the rest on a dress

that made you bloom & twirl without
my helping. You took my hand & we pretended

we weren’t running. We waltzed our time,
whistle-cooled diner coffee on my dime,

told the waitress we were married
& expecting. Nothing is realer than

an honest lie. & nothing’s more fun.
God’s a good lie. & even God knows –

you can chew fat & still stay thin
& love is both a blessing & a sin.

{ X } Continue reading “After Lincoln, Nebraska” – Poetry by Devin Kelly →

“Warlock” – Poetry by William Lessard

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, , ,
Guardian of the Entrance - Nicholas Roerich, 1927
Guardian of the Entrance – Nicholas Roerich, 1927

Any sufficiently advanced technology, as Arthur C. Clarke said, is indistinguishable from magic. And sometimes, advanced technology can be so maddening it’s indistinguishable from black magic– kind of like in “Warlock,” one of four bewitching poems by William Lessard in our Summer 2016 issue.

{ X }

PASSWORD: INCORRECT
user: not found
someday my magic
will be perfect,
my spells
not a question
of
the right conjuring
of
wordssymbolsnumbers
this world
a sad
warlock
trying to remember
is it
my mother’s
maiden name
or
my best friend
at school
turns enemies
into
tree frogs,
makes gold
shine
across my palm
I will not yield
I will not
angry
at
Warlock Tech Support
outsourced
to the middle
of
your favorite song
angry
at
my
angry-at
I am the warlock
you forget
during commercials
one day
I will lift
the
ocean
you
will kiss

{ X }

Continue reading “Warlock” – Poetry by William Lessard →

“So Much for the Sound of a Starboard Warp Whistle” – Poetry by Jessie Janeshek

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, , ,
Peacock and Crocodile - Maria Primachenko, 1937
Peacock and Crocodile – Maria Primachenko, 1937

No poet has contributed more pieces to our weird little zine than Jessie Janeshek, and we’re ecstatic to have five of her marvelous, mystical poems in our Summer 2016 issue. One of those poems, “So Much for the Sound of a Starboard Warp Whistle,” is below, and you can read the rest by purchasing FLAPPERHOUSE X in print or digital (PDF) editions. (And if you’re in the NYC-area on August 3rd, you can come hear Jessie perform at FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #9 at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard!)

{ X }

I NEED THE PURENESS                                          that’s hard on the kidneys
              a blue faux leather jacket                                         your unused breasts.

 
              I need white paper                                          five years of service
shuffling the room                       in Ouija board shoes

 
              striped socks thinking of you              the dead cat on the mattress
a peacock for sickness           its noose on my ankle.

 
                                                     You said we were headed       for doom or the door
the saint’s wheel an orange brain                                  too much in one basket.

 
                                I’m not learning the rain
                                one black knot in our aspect

 
but let’s plan a murder                                                                          for when you get stuck
              hearing that sex                                                       or the light clears your head.

 
                                Depression is lazy                                I hate all the babies
              morality plays                       in a foreign language.

 
                                      I let the door crack                    for a merman-shaped angel
                            a sweetheart-grip gun.

 
                                                                         I build asylum
                                with thick wooden blocks                      one finger in

 
                   my seizing crotch.                         My eye sockets jingle
                                              a sunshine          a gingham-skirt suicide

 
                    so much our monster                   ascends metaphor
                                                                your red and white candle
                                                                                   removing its jinx.

{ X } Continue reading “So Much for the Sound of a Starboard Warp Whistle” – Poetry by Jessie Janeshek →

“advice from spirit eater” and “father” – Poetry by William Lessard

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, , ,
Burning House - Marc Chagall, 1913
Burning House – Marc Chagall, 1913

Not only does William Lessard have 3 gorgeously surreal poems in our Spring 2016 issue (including “advice from spirit eater” and “father,” below), he’ll have four more poems in our forthcoming issue, FLAPPERHOUSE X, AND he’ll be performing at our 8th Reading / Issue X Flight Party at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard on June 22!

{ X }

“advice from spirit eater”

BLUE BABY ANGEL

tucked

behind your spleen

every night

he claws out,

just to watch

cartoons

can’t stop him / can

slow him down

he likes sugar

and anger—give him

vegetables

&

joy

 

 { X } Continue reading “advice from spirit eater” and “father” – Poetry by William Lessard →

“Master of the Understatement” – Poetry by Catfish McDaris

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, ,
Glass Tears - Man Ray, 1932
Glass Tears – Man Ray, 1932

We’re not sure how this Spaniard fellow in “Master of the Understatement” determines his preferences, but we are surely fascinated by his unique train of thought. This poem is just one of 5 that Catfish McDaris contributed to our Spring 2016 issue, and you can read all of them by purchasing the issue here.

{ X }

SPANIARD DECIDED TO START WRITING:
I’d rather be a testicle than a rainbow
I’d rather be a tornado than a stinky fart
I’d rather be a cherry tree than a vagina

I’d rather be Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart than Frank Sinatra
I’d rather be a buffalo nickel than a burning American flag
I’d rather be a teardrop than a booger

I’d rather be a guitar than a sneeze
I’d rather be a cloud than a flounder
I’d rather be a thimble of love than a ton of gold

I’d rather be tiger shit in Vietnam than a man with an ugly penis
I’d rather be a clitoris than a tomato
I’d rather be William S. Burroughs’ amputated finger
than Adolf Hitler’s testicle he lost in World War One.

{ X } Continue reading “Master of the Understatement” – Poetry by Catfish McDaris →

“Outskirt Melancholia” – Poetry by Innas Tsuroiya

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, ,
Study for Man and Machine - Hannah Hoch, 1921
Study for Man and Machine – Hannah Hoch, 1921

An estranged sense of yearning haunts “Outskirt Melancholia,” one of two enigmatically beautiful poems by Innas Tsuroiya in our Spring 2016 issue.

{ X }

FROM AN ABANDONED METROPOLIS BORN OF ROBOTS

or automatons; birthing noise and

disturbance, bearing hurl and turbulence

peeling our eyes out of riddles and

tiresomeness beyond compare

 

we are machine, we are motorcar

we are dysfunctional engine that sleeps

alone next to the city’s perimeter

we are unpaid safeguard praised of

being such passionless

we are not who we judge we are

 

then again who else in the earth is being

tired from getting tired; you may cast a

query to me from a small cavity crafted

in your water vacuum tube where you hide

all your emotions or from a buttonhole in

your gasoline-smelling armor-clad suit

 

we crawl underneath the leap of our faith

yet we are forever here in the borderline

of an abandoned metropolis born of

robots or automatons— but full of photographs

and paintings from faraway suburbs that

we never ever visit, we never ever call in

{ X } Continue reading “Outskirt Melancholia” – Poetry by Innas Tsuroiya →

“Washerwomen” – Poetry by Christina M. Rau

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, ,
Washerwomen - Paul Gauguin, 1888
Washerwomen – Paul Gauguin, 1888

“Washerwomen” is one of two stirring and beguiling poems by Christina M. Rau in our Spring 2016 issue.

{ X }

THEY SING A DULL, SAD SONG,
preparing sheets to shroud the dead.

Men can’t resist a moondance,
a ripple dance, long white hair.

The women weave it to make the sheets
they wash. They wear tattered dresses,

black and grey, subsist on night
and liquid, act kindly to those

pure of heart, and those at peace,
and those who dream and walk the moon.

From caves underground,
they emerge beside stagnant waters.

They offer cleansing to those who
discard the harmony of the night.

They pull sinners close,
pretty day-faces wrinkle at dark.

Sins fade only below the surface
twisted in damp sheets—

these shrouds are for sins.
Sometimes the women are only shadows.

{ X } Continue reading “Washerwomen” – Poetry by Christina M. Rau →

“A Fan Girl Meets David Bowie” – Poetry by Sarah Lilius

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, ,

BowieHeroesEven our most beloved gods & idols can reveal themselves to be mere all-too-human mortals– like in “A Fan Girl Meets David Bowie,” Sarah Lilius‘ powerful poem from our Spring 2016 issue.

{ X }

CIGARETTE BUTTS IN A CRYSTAL ASHTRAY, opulence
with stink, curtains catch the smoke.
I see him watch me, wonder when I’d dance
but it’s not the 1980’s and my hair’s in place.
I think of the Labyrinth, a place to lose
myself, in my youth those tight pants
were everything, I dreamt of men
with makeup, men who sing
me to sleep, who laugh in different hats.

He never closes the door, doesn’t smile
as much as I thought he would.
His accent is faded a bit from the city
but still a Brit, I ask him about the Queen.
He looks out a clean window, flicks ash
to the floor and waits for the maid
to vacuum it up.

My dead fantasy is a sealed deal
when Iman walks in, tells me
it’s time to go.

{ X } Continue reading “A Fan Girl Meets David Bowie” – Poetry by Sarah Lilius →

“Rolling Out Tortillas” – Poetry by Sarah Frances Moran

Excerpts, Flappertising, Flappricana, Poetry, ,
Self Portrait Along the Borderline Between Mexico and the United States - Frida Kahlo, 1932
Self Portrait Along the Borderline Between Mexico and the United States – Frida Kahlo, 1932

From our Spring 2016 issue, Sarah Frances Moran‘s lyrical & thought-provoking poem “Rolling Out Tortillas” explores some of the tangled borders of culture & history.

{ X }

ROLL OUT THE DOUGH.
Roll out the crossing of rivers and
sun scorched skin.
Roll out fingers brittle from a cotton gin
and a mind, only educated as far as picking a plant
can go.
Roll out dozens of siblings and cousins so vast
you have trouble remembering their names.

Roll out shame.
Roll out the way the white tongue has trouble
rolling the  r
Roll out and leave that part of you there, flattened.
Roll out eating ice cream outside because
only whites were allowed inside.
Roll out being told you can only speak English
to my children
Roll out losing your native tongue to love

Roll out your half-breed children
Roll out their light skin and the privilege they’ll
have the opportunity not to appreciate.
Roll out the Almendarez so Davis can fully set in.

Roll out the American Flag,
Roll it far and wide and so far and so wide
That you forget where San Luis Potosí
even is.

Roll out the Chicana in you.
Roll it out so it makes it ok to use wetback liberally.
Roll it until it’s so thin you can only see the white
reflected in your face, until your dark hair and dark eyes, pale.

Teach me how to hold that rollingpin;
So I can remember this labor.
So I can remember how we keep our bellies warm.
So I can remember why my hair stays so curly and how
sometimes, I can see my ancestors through this storm.

Roll out that tortilla and toss it on the comal.
When it hits your tongue,
tell me how you’ve worked so hard to forget,
and tell me,
when it melts in your mouth…

Do you remember home?

{ X } Continue reading “Rolling Out Tortillas” – Poetry by Sarah Frances Moran →