Archive for the ‘Dennis Mahagin’ Category

Dennis Mahagin’s poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse,
3 A.M., 42opus, Keyhole, Thieves Jargon, and Underground
Voices. He also edits fiction and poetry for Frigg Magazine.

[Ghazal Of The Balsamic I.D.]+[Dennis Mahagin]

[believe it or not bulimic ghazal]+[Dennis Mahagin]

[The Just Say No Ghazal]+[Dennis Mahagin]

[Bad Dream At Blues Rock]+[Dennis Mahagin]

Grape juice stain on a white Rayon shirt. Plum spatter,
and every bit of baking soda, rubbed on bloody gums.

The Fugue begins, with two fins, setting up Hamilton…
His filthy-green smirk. Aching to get to the places he’s been.

On Payday, Bartok got jittery for no reason. Practiced his signature
on reams of butcher paper drained four black Sharpies. Neurotic spirals.

“How many we holding up?” said a Nuyorican paramedic, gang signs
in my shattered face. Someone tossed a snow globe, off the overpass.

The way Malek proudly tended the flagstick on number15 green,
you just knew the gophers already got his info. Ripe for reals. Fall.

Equifax the Godhead! I was only returning … I was only returning
a necktie to the Gap. Sub prime shirt tag. Usher in, ring tone. Microchip.

The Asian anesthesiologist, who said: “I’m absolutely starving,”
outside the O.R., where A.C. was freshest. Crisp scrub greens.

And were we not all, once, burping babies? Adorable spritz
hiss: upchuck like latte foam. Tiny fists, oooof and oooohm.

Hangover at the GNC. Ultimate equalizer oh, my flipping… God.
Projectile vomit across an isle of Slim Fast. It happened to me!

On Montel, some emaciated stewardess told of the tarmac siege at
LAX. Bared her midriff. Shock of ribs, peppered by Blue Diamond salt.

He kept his stir, down Shelton. In return for unlimited Tums, a Samoan
bull with skel key on Tier Three, put him off his peaches. Permanently.

In bad, bad dreams, piping hot pizza, strawberry ice cream. And a junkie
in P-Town’s Burger King, choking on a swollen tongue. Half a corn dog.

Pan hard on a dilapidated septum. Frosty mucosa and the next
7 years, laid out like lines on a spider crack.  Mirror.  Mirror.

At the bleak block party, 2 crew-cut Russians in Shaft jackets.
Twin reapers: one named Phedra, the other, — Stolichnaya.

Shirtless Ani De Milo, in the Jewel Mist gallery.  No vein
cooperates. Blood-streaks and bent syringe, etc. Inveterate.

Nobody told Coyle that crank caused cases of impotence:
A week of floorboards. No sleep. Get it up for Nancy Reagan?

16 DUI’s, and a liver like the humped back of an impudent
Mulatto slave. Bush leaguer, so grandiose at the AA. Long QT.

One earnest Cajun angel, on a subway grate, told me, “Better late
than jaundice…or Later.” He yanked me back, as the train blasted

Past.

First off,
this tall, raven-haired priest
handed me fistfuls of orange
pills.

“Relax, these here
are time released,”
he said. There’d been some talk
of bad diswalla going ’round, passed
off as Dilaudid. Instead
of getting you off, they expanded
in the duodenum as neatly stacked
cones of chalk. I crossed
myself, then smacked the palm
of that priest with 40 bones worth
of filthy lucre; he got right
in my face, then. He said:
“One grows weary
of the lies… admit you believe
in God, only  ’cause you’re
scared to die …”

In this bad dream, was when
I longed to hear a certain Led
Zeppelin song, the instrumental
on ZoSo, Jimi Page’s twelve-string
solo, was bound to bring me around.
Yet still, the black Beemer
on Belmont street, awaited
my march home. I get too
close, an alarm goes
off like gut-shot
seagulls
in an air raid
zone, played
havoc with the
cones of chalk
in my gut.

“Now you know what
John Bonham went through,” reprised
the priest, who’d snuck up, in a purple
haze of patchouli, wearing nothing
underneath his vestments.

I knew
there was a half cup of bitter
cold Starbucks on my night
stand, but I was fighting my way
up, the Beemer had become a
silver Benz, and a bunch of bubbles
hurt me so hard, out of Lawrence
Welk, or a seagull
who’d swallowed
Alka Seltzer
pellets.

I took a sip
in the dark, started coughing
up bright orange sparks. I tell you
now, the first breath, that purest riff
of the waking, is nothing
but virtuoso, and heaven
sent, too.