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 http://offcourse.org
 ISSN 1556-4975

   

Since 1998, a journal for poetry, criticism, reviews, stories and essays edited by Ricardo Nirenberg.


 

Poems by Cody John Laplante.

 

the violence of cycle


i bled a swaying field of flowers of their precious happiness
sucking black life from slits in their stems
one meager drop from each precious poppy
i had to lurch forward because i couldn’t look back

sucking black life from slits in their stems
i burst out crying at my violence
then, needing it most, i started again
one precious drop from each meager poppy

i had to lurch forward because i couldn’t look back
and even when i lost myself i stayed on track
sucking black life from the slits in their stems
a wilting field of poppies bled me of my happiness

 


 

vladamir and estragon get lost on their way
from the picnic


slap

slap slap

slapslap

SLAP

               oh shit what

we’re in the middle
of a moving vehicle
and we’re heading in the wrong direction

               ok well
               let’s turn around

we’ve been going
this way for as long
as i care to remember

               there’s a spot
                                ooops
               we missed it

we’re so fucking far
from where i thought
we were supposed to be

               maybe there?
                               nope, not there
               not there

this road
is the only thing we’ve known

               there’s one
               coming up
               i think

this is too awful
i’m going to try
and sleep

 


 

the first and last kiss of j. alfred prufrock

Al and i were sitting lonely
at the bottom of the ocean

he kept singing about how
dreadfully frightened he was of women

and i kept eyeing him, yupping,
and nodding to show him i was listening

we were sharing pipefulls
of wet dark tobacco and a bottle
of scottish whiskey

a song started spinning
he started whimpering
her voice struck him like
a needle had been stuck in
it was edith piaf caterwauling vainly
for some dude on the street
who she’d never get to meet

so clearly he felt lacking
some crucial clause in the law of attraction
that i could stare almost through him
to the red waving of angel hair seaweed

at least we’ve got fraternity says i
to which he starts to cry

i don’t know whether to sock him
or put my arm around him so i grab him
by his blubbering stubble and lay a wet kiss
on his hopeless lips

the heat leaps back and they turn blue

he shoves me and falls out of his chair
edging crablike away with utter horror
carved into his face he realizes it’s water
that he’s been trying to breathe

 


Cody John Laplante lives in Buenos Aires where he taps into the power of his liberal arts education to teach professionals English as a second language, and make art. He's from New Hampshire. His small credentials do not resound but if you want to see some more of his oeuvres you can, at Marco Polo arts magazine or The Unexposed Magazine, Issue #7. 

 



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