what i would say by matt margo
Post on 07-Mar-2016
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what i would say
Matt Margo
Author’s Note:
The poems that comprise this chapbook consist of language
generated by what-would-i-say.com, a website that gathers
phrases from all of your Facebook posts and mashes them
together algorithmically. I wish to thank the Princeton
University students who created what-would-i-say.com for
making this chapbook possible as well as Peanut Gallery Press
for publishing my work.
Table of Contents
the mirror reflecting ~ 4
insects’ song ~ 5
also e.e. ~ 6
après céline ~ 7
our together ~ 8
cyclical (1) ~ 9
cyclical (2) ~ 10
from a feeling of polepost in technicolor ~ 11
a mysterious murder, a ~ 12
survey ~ 13
story ~ 14
an aspiration ~ 15
my body into my hands ~ 16
weak end ~ 17
repugnant ~ 18
certain city clams ~ 19
as much as ~ 20
foe tha love of this ~ 21
what would i say ~ 22
green knight ~ 23
her am and him think ~ 24
currents ~ 25
xerxes the blowfish ~ 26
the mirror reflecting
it’s too hard, it
is a poem dedicated to
faraway screeches by the killer,
the chorus of this
universe in which
the best biff bitter blonde born
is the devil—666,
a tightness in a chase after the lights
live. there may be alive.
has anyone else
ever flirted with shots of
stones and sticks of firewood?
the number is the sentence,
the number is watching tonight.
insects’ song
insects’ song
needs to flourish.
the uncharacteristic sentence
calls it a fantasy novel.
if i’m just saying, i’m just watching—
bawling, screaming,
daydreaming
happy little dreams,
that strange habit of it all.
i am finally locked in and chuckling at
the little boys and the stars,
and that uncharacteristic sentence
gargling endless nameless chemicals,
their slack, false continuity.
also e.e.
also e.e.
that they say and i know
the same poem wavering,
the flame of year…
before he left
yellowed yes you,
i stayed inside and
stretched my legs,
lying to no end, toward the tale
made to sedate me,
the form that still suffers,
changing the game with
disappointed and suicidal thoughts
blaring from dragon bog doublends.
après céline
more messages and then again
bathwater beneath the valley…
standing still deeper down:
the mature escapist of everything—
everything that
is poetry and
the smallness of you.
words cannot accurately express
universal concerns,
urban astronauts,
a link to a clump of
clouded and dirty realism
everywhere—everywhere exactly—
the same way back to the grave.
our together
our together will be
close to the folks who say
that they are not so
willing to
donate a copy of
the conference on my
practically perfect days,
on my bones and rings
licking the dead—
flowers for lunch and
humans themselves,
attempts to escape
oral culture…
there are too many people worldwide.
cyclical (1)
it feels so special to me,
sleepaddled at the plot
or the tooloud sound
of the themself then there—
the attic, where carmen is
so very excited to be
a particular somethingness:
nirvana, however it be known…
‘action’ appears innately
for the other.
i walk back to remind myself why
and i return to it,
a total of disquiet.
nothing may dwell within me.
cyclical (2) nothingness leads to
what is incomplete.
a splintered pine, yellowing—
now it’s none?
perversity in the ocean of human life,
close to the fire
of a computer screen, and
what language becomes
is perhaps
a bookbag full of rivals,
an axiom.
sometimes the night’s
a merry one.
first time in years tonight.
from a feeling of polepost in technicolor
from a feeling
of polepost
in technicolor,
startled by the crowd—
the westernized
anagram of
lyrics with endless
thought waves,
everlastingly fortunate—
as nightfall washes over
and around and around
my hometown,
the common cool corner
in all of twilight.
a mysterious murder, a
a mysterious murder, a
wizard, a combination of
exhaustion and
tobacco,
my taste runs off,
wallpapered,
a field full of insights,
somehow forgotten ages—
these ones cost me
a second nature
naturally matted.
whitewalled rooms begin to be
a sort of inside,
restoring everything…
survey from the poet was a survey
pulled out of the art,
beginning again—
the narrative, or more importantly,
the list price.
they both have laughed at the bar.
disorder, chaos, and antonyms
evaluate the dive
behind the sense of panic in
the name of november
that newborn babies carry,
especially when they crown themselves.
had a knife fight with no one.
had a vision in prose.
story irresponsible toys circle wildly,
forcefully awoken by
the sick shewolf—the
genocide and the estimated
health complications.
when artists accuse other artists of
really struggling with
institutional collectors
or uninstalling then reinstalling
solace in my wording,
attractions emerge and
evolve, and so
reemerge, sobered,
tossing to tv unison.
an aspiration i hope to alleviate
an alphabetic
reflection in the style of
political surveillance—
a tv gameshow audience
embedded in celebration,
still not satisfied.
the crisis belittles itself.
mutation’s executor
is dedicated to loving,
sitting in the same
signifier.
wear the world.
you’re almost finished.
my body into my hands my body into my hands,
a ceremony to celebrate
what was water—
just a mere reflection…
there is my friend from
the world that i am
watching, but now
it’s gone now and
all moving verses repeat,
linguistics and semiotics
that we examine and explore through
transcribing
an unreality, a falsity,
a synonym for assassin…
weak end i am a college student,
drunk off campus.
i have felt in one world
the gospel of joy
which echoes out
beyond a medal of honor.
people seem to be
fairly confident about ever traveling.
i have notathing to reserve.
i have no excuse to anyone.
hollywoodcopyrighted money machines
occupy a diorama,
passing faster and faster every day.
i cannot help but wallow.
repugnant
i fuck with a hook
in my penis.
i have you,
the sun behind
the age of
the gulf.
our love is
a blood drive—
it cums back.
my teeth and
my handwriting…
plaguing myself,
i have nothing to say,
and i cannot help you.
certain city clams certain city clams
feel genuinely happy.
i want to have
the full sincerity of
all the epics.
the stress continues.
lost in my head, i am,
defaulting to mimicking.
here is a complex pattern,
a good feeling—
something like
an enormous tool,
the final product of
some public sphere.
as much as hey golgotha,
my son climbed out of autumn and
pointed to
particles swallowed by
beams of balance.
blow a slow analysis
of clouds, endless clouds, endless clouds…
be honest with me:
do you really
walk outside and
feel interested in
a vertical ascent,
that lesser priority for
anyone else?
foe tha love of this the money i linger over
is due entirely to
hours spent sitting around in the great
solar system designed
to be known as a kmart.
the money i shoot
only wants to maintain direct eye contact,
construct interesting beats, and
stare at my workplace.
my money is a poem wandering down mountains,
not a big word, just a thought,
a calming wash,
a spike through
a structural godsend.
what would i say if your computer could write
scenes of winter,
conveying internal conflict,
a mimetic imitation of real life,
the dark green lawns and
their histories,
all artificially conferred and decided by
the future of literature,
what would it say?
what would i say?
i don’t know…
i feel focused on how to dream in darkness.
i am who i am,
the skeleton of a computer…
green knight green knight—
what happened to having
rumbling static,
noise jazz with
lordosis?
what happened to having
a morethanable, adept sound
of one’s own,
abstract at the moment
of conceptualizing,
a stark departure from lonely hours?
what happened to having
less cash to spare,
more soundscape masterpieces?
her am and him think her am and him think
as they always do
anymore, no matter what.
i have taken from
bad, bad bags
the drug of me,
the common man:
the days of silence, the distance
imaginative and inventive,
fibbing to the ears of the house
up petty pride and above the bookstore,
ultimately insignificant.
but i’ve yet to lift your legs out
of the furnace of the other.
currents during spring—
boiling water,
dishing out hundreds upon hundreds
of buttnaked abstractions
for the sake of avoiding confrontation,
heading to bed early—
three days departed, died.
a ghost passed through
the hydrosphere and—
whispering aloud—
became further
uninterested
in the dissipated
ocean surf.
xerxes the blowfish the blowfish:
it’s less an ironic statement than a
battle between coyotes,
another trip on behalf of those
unhappiest moments never heard of…
this narrow thudding timeshaped face
has always been much more less prevalent,
more insecure and
curious, here
inside the sun’s lifespan—
faintly falling,
filtered almost solely through the chest,
the same repeated experience of you
with no words of wanting me.
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