:: Article

Spiv Driver

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By Travis Jeppesen and Matthew Wascovich.

JAILS, LAKES

macho jails and the bored lakes
put forth to the extent
that others listen,
a small entry
as the learned insult themselves

prague coughs a nail
see it there as male
this deceptive punt,
you are drugged
a bus full of cripples

the cutters grind their wrists,
ill as the serviced,
stream the metropark stone
the one that skips a creek
a severance of comment

oh, miserable nature
oh, the discontented

***

MUTE IS NOT ENOUGH

there is strength
in giving up
as much as the pose,
you, the important hits,
a mugger but nothing stolen

mute is not enough
for dumbshit,
so ride solo
you do not talk anymore,
can’t get close to anything

and ahead,
it’s opposite gender
thou chest holder
psycho fucker,
good morning sociopath

when you revert to infancy,
while our situations
wish obedience
this will not be a swap,
we will not trade nor screw

***

SPATIAL TELEPHONES

how much longer
should she spend?
i’m on a deck
a hand, a pussy for you

i’ve got no anger for us,
it’s a shower, a rainfall,
shower without storm
the corner, the fighters

the authorities are drinking
without their leash
pretty guardian
is cutting my mind
compact space makes nervous

no more shadows
no more shadows
this show for you
move for me

i can’t look at a face,
my fist is rubbing teeth
infinite mannerisms,
we buy our backstabs

***

TAKE A WORLD

nobody wants this:
to be what they don’t
my reflection is not there,
people watch but cannot see
she said that she knows

knows how you two are,
an eclipse is lurid and vested,
fear is not conscience
take this world
and hide from it

for hands hurt hit,
both ways
my picture on your mantle,
it’s a drawing of you
with men of ridiculous lineage

the voices don’t match number
as i called you unworthy,
you didn’t believe them
an apartment with gold stars,
dreadful, take a world

***

SHIVERS

after me to false men
shivers, their intent
shivers, devoid of declaration
mirror for the fuckface,
spin power:
could we, learn?

shivers, their intent
cocky, throws a dart
his elite sheets, write it
space, found the founder
low fright
i hate the ground,
frighteningly,
she will create!

her bars for trio
intent, their intentions

we didn’t have to
end it this way

(Wascovich)

FOR JAN JAKUB KOTÍK: IN MEMORIAM

On the coldest night of the year. A siren swirls, the darkness blanches it all out. You become aware of a sudden shift in circumstances – someone you once knew is no longer. The formality is driven to make your eyes cave into stones. And there I sit in my black suit and watch another body dreaming, counting each exhalation, wondering what the total sum will tell me. It is not hard to find oneself in total discomfort on an emotional level. I only wish there was something higher than all this looking forward as I look back. The speakers blast out a warning – you were always tapped into the raw transmission, the circuitry threatening to shred us. We smoked dope at the Cannibal Corpse concert, nodded at the stage and said this is the real art. The ashes are circumstances that defy our genial loathing. If only a sheep really led to sleep, we’d have something to work on – something real to defy. There are lands he wouldn’t go to, places made of plastic with syrup for oceans. I hate those places. What I’m talking about is a genuine shelter called home. That was the last place I saw you – a sunny day in autumn, rays bouncing off the Vltava. We were so eager to speak, from one side of town to another, I nearly forgot to step off, while you continued on to Anděl. There was no death in your face then. The way the tram goes down that hill, past the government. Here, a million stories get told each day. I could barely serve as a container for myself in those years, and yet I caught you rising. Days, I fear, when it was cold enough to snow. The monitors blasted forth the willful supplication of the powers you had long run away from. Sometimes thought can be imagined. Sometimes those imaginings can be transformed into structures. Sometimes structures come in and interfere with our lives. And sometimes those structures rest dormant inside us, just waiting to erupt.

* 22.10.1972 – 13.12.2007

(Jeppesen)

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Travis Jeppesen was born in 1979 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. After studying literature and philosophy at the New School for Social Research in New York, Jeppesen left the United States for Europe, where he has resided since 2001. He is the author of two novels, Victims (Akashic Books, 2003) and Wolf at the Door (Twisted Spoon Press, 2007) and a collection of poetry, Poems I Wrote While Watching TV (BLATT Books, 2006). He has written about contemporary art and culture for a number of publications, including 3:AM Magazine, The Prague Pill, New York Press, Umelec, ZOO, Pavement Magazine, Bookforum, The Stranger, and Provokator, and will be published in the forthcoming anthology The Offbeat Generation. Jeppesen currently divides his time between Berlin and Prague, where he edits the literary journal BLATT.

Matthew Wascovich‘s poetry, essays, and interviews have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. His most recent books are We Will Know, Gypsy (2008) and Devoid of Declaration (2007), from Hab Discontent Books. Since 1995, he has published more than 70 volumes of poetry via his imprint, Slow Toe Publication & Record Institute. In 2002, he became a senior editor at Paris-based 3:AM Magazine. In 2004, he started Flat Bike poetry journal, which recently marked its eleventh issue. Matthew’s band, Scarcity of Tanks, has toured extensively throughout the United States, while recording for Total Life Society Records (U.S.A.), Textile Records (France), Ecstatic Yod Records (U.S.A), and Phase! Records (Greece).

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Thursday, October 16th, 2008.