Apartment Poetry Quarterly

9A              9B              9C              9D              9E              9F


9B Eszter Takacs



These are publications by the united states of nothing like us,
of a you borrowed to withstand atrocity and a flat-bedded lake of steam.

In the choking wake of little else mattering, behold the paradigms shifting:
we fodder the get-go of time, the lucidity of another erudite space.

Shape first your escape, second your own face for its breaking.
Blossom an arm, a lung, a waistbone, a spine.

Next, tip forward the alliance and you’ll see it a sham;
lay forward the alliance and you’ll witness its beginning: grace,

or just a residual mistake, a covered lump strolling the back of the fridge.
How later we thickly ambled for enlightenment: the story.

In another room, a moon lay atop another, said fuck me
but no moon considers the layout of its land, the parchment of its defiance.

In our ambling toward God, we embraced the seismic allowance of daybreaks:
movement toward inclusive artillery shaped like an exclusive cup’s worth of face.

In the time of us we shook loose the pundits, sucked loose their phlegm.
At night we held hands, or rather, I held yours while you puked out the resins, anchors,

five states away into leavened waves,
back arched, face forward, eyes on the horizon where we did not meet.


Or reasons why we claim solidarity, lament rage, outscore and outsource inaction
This ungodly mistake fits ripe in my hot palm and I’m dancing
Or the phantom ghost of our repentance that resides for spectacle
My palm faces up at your dystopian buzz cut says blame
Or that some deep men consider the largeness of our simple white spermaceti feats
Your buzz cut says fuck me your buzz cut says bright lights big city small factors
Or the limits of what we can do matter less than the trip tarp decline of Uzis and snow flakes
The bright big city oozes says blue balls says bloat bitch
Or the decentering of prized pales and prized proms and pretty girls contains you gut borne
Your blue balls say hey girl hey
Or the deveining of your stump jokes on Broadway, the broad way they curl up onto my hip
Your blue balls come swine come seraphic
Or the far flung serenity of Gods who blow up lock jawed estates in the byzantine
I say it’s midnight my heart burns and this outrage says bust
Or the far flung serenity of Gods who blow up lock jawed estates in the rapture
I sway to your waiver I sway to your swagger song made of birds cut from paper
Or the far flung serenity of Gods who blow up
The reasons why we claim solidarity are your faces tipped forward like kettles drunk rain


The perfection of language is harmony       is blank

I walk the plank not outside       your fit door

Its lank and deceit becomes my glitter       migraine

I wander the plains of a majestic market       stock bond or legit pasture of bureaucracy

I aspire to be golden light in your broken face       a loose pen in your pocket

I wish I could hug you from inside       this rejected canteen

The biography of an it girl includes brain matter and a photo of a dented pea can

The biography of an it girl is me       in bad lighting

The biography of my ankle is a cease and desist order

This pain we carry isn’t a mixture of white music and trap land

It isn’t a mixture of lost bones and the sour lipsticks of our illegitimate health

The pain is just body leaving face       just blue leaving black       just another empty bag

We’re full of calories and soft political jokes       bagged and ordered like a slump of limes

If the chicken were force fed       what would be it’s lucky charmeuse       a chair gone wrong

I’ll meet you at the feather riot       a sex dream couldn’t imagine

At dusk we walk toward our own de facto faces       like friction, we bruise

Pick the softest strawberry from the box       eat for the lump cause, eat for disclaim

Have a dream