C. Derick Varn
Decupidas
There are no birds in this poem:
no poets were damaged in its
creation, although that would
be no great loss. If your lover
malfunctions, make sure there
is no fire in the nether cavity,
or you may need to reboot.
If your heart is broken, try
suede or clean, oiled
full grain thigh-highs.
When you wake in tangled
bedding from dreams
of bog-bursts and lost
lovers submerged and
glossy like black birds.
When you make love in
the back of an old hearse,
you will be bitten, new
pain will open and drip
unto the floorboard. When
you fall for your friends, they
will love you anyway but
you’ll need air for the fresh
flora in your lungs. For love
pains, take ibuprofen but
don’t call in the morning.
Notice that there are no
swallows or magpies in
the poem. Wonder why.
--
C. Derick Varn is a poet, teacher, and theorist. He currently edits for Former People. He has a Master of Fine Arts in Poetry at Georgia College and State University where he served as assistant editor for Arts and Letters: A Journal of Contemporary Arts. He has served as managing editor for the now defunct Milkwood Review. He won the Frankeye Davis Mayes/Academy of American Poets Prize in 2003 and his poetry has appeared at Unlikely Stories 2.0, Full of Crows, Writing Disorder, JMWW, Clutching at Straws, Xenith, Piriene’s Fountain, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Mexico, and recently moved from South Korea. Originally from the deep South of the United States. He lives in Northern Mexico as a lecturer and teacher on Ethics, Composition, and Intercultural communication. He taught both University and high school in South Korea and the States as well. He lives with his partner, and a bunch of books, and writes at night.
no poets were damaged in its
creation, although that would
be no great loss. If your lover
malfunctions, make sure there
is no fire in the nether cavity,
or you may need to reboot.
If your heart is broken, try
suede or clean, oiled
full grain thigh-highs.
When you wake in tangled
bedding from dreams
of bog-bursts and lost
lovers submerged and
glossy like black birds.
When you make love in
the back of an old hearse,
you will be bitten, new
pain will open and drip
unto the floorboard. When
you fall for your friends, they
will love you anyway but
you’ll need air for the fresh
flora in your lungs. For love
pains, take ibuprofen but
don’t call in the morning.
Notice that there are no
swallows or magpies in
the poem. Wonder why.
--
C. Derick Varn is a poet, teacher, and theorist. He currently edits for Former People. He has a Master of Fine Arts in Poetry at Georgia College and State University where he served as assistant editor for Arts and Letters: A Journal of Contemporary Arts. He has served as managing editor for the now defunct Milkwood Review. He won the Frankeye Davis Mayes/Academy of American Poets Prize in 2003 and his poetry has appeared at Unlikely Stories 2.0, Full of Crows, Writing Disorder, JMWW, Clutching at Straws, Xenith, Piriene’s Fountain, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Mexico, and recently moved from South Korea. Originally from the deep South of the United States. He lives in Northern Mexico as a lecturer and teacher on Ethics, Composition, and Intercultural communication. He taught both University and high school in South Korea and the States as well. He lives with his partner, and a bunch of books, and writes at night.