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.