#alan hanson

[hydeordie]

In 2018 I collaborated with the late poet Alan Hanson on an installation at Silverlake Reservoir. All that is left are these Polaroids.

[lookedlikelaughing]

erasure (unstructured units of time)

I’ve never been in love with anyone I’ve eaten at a French restaurant with especially a croque madam, eye flexed as I order a beer.

This comes to me passing a Pavilions on Melrose where Melissa and I bought condoms one night  when it was very easy to not be in love  and winter sweat  and low-stress sex  on Lexington.

Then the gods started fucking around, hammering mantle and spitting rotgut.

Everybody now breaking their teeth at brunch and biblical you a shatter in Brooklyn.

I want to know what kind of woman you’ll be when you’re sixty-five and I want to know when your sister gets married and notified when your mother dies and you could  skin me every morning with a flick of your eyes sleepy on the side and petrified.

But I’m gone and Hollywood is a wince and I’m gone and I will eat you when I’m gone and the engine turns over gone so I flirt with an actress on twitter or spin quarters with married bartenders yes it’s awful still learning and my bones are a creek my head is emptied of honey and you won’t email me about checking out the hottest cam models, for free, but someone will, now, and everybody...

[brokenshipsla]

An excerpt/fan art from “DANCE OF THE FLATLINE” 

Back to first position.

[brokenshipsla]

Excerpt/fan art of Alan Hanson’s “GHOSTS OF GLP (ABBOTTS/ANDRONICUS)”

If you have any of her tucked into boxes, we’ll take them off your hands.

[lookedlikelaughing]

a real bad word got caught in my hiss

australians in bali all liquored by the beach the last time i saw you in a bikini you were bleaching my bathtub, smirking up at me flicking your tongue like some hot wet warning, then

unfollow, unfriend, a week later i see you on tinder again

with all the other unknowables maybe working for david geffen maybe blowing their bangs and saying some empty bullshit like “berlin is so over”

so let me tell you where it frayed as if i owe you! but, anyway my teeth were soaked in old granddad while you were pleading a repeat one winter night, green-lit at the formosa as i strained to hear hoagy carmichael  behind your sinister exhales, your steaming side-eye, when i remebered alexis saying, “i think i’m moving back to cincy”

are you following?  oh god, you were so good in bed but you’d never say something as real as that so i go back to the beach for a scream what’d that divorce lawyer say? the tree remembers, the ax forgets?

oh you pouty girl with the princess name i’m more than action and you don’t need to be better you just never needed to happen

[lookedlikelaughing]

trends in divinity

You’ve got your crystals You’ve got your intentions I’m spitting at the moon someone needs to give me detention and I’m sorry I got loaded and said you shouldn’t move to L.A. I mean fuck! Even the Chargers might do it I guess it’s anyone’s game. Don’t listen to me. I’m crazy, I’m dying. I spent a Tuesday in the house drinking cucumber martinis and crying. I’m shredded ghost architect, look: These hands are large, I know, but I’m still surprised they built this beautiful museum of guilt— we’re open seven days a week we’re tonguing sockets we’re dragging a creek we’re whipping our backsides and admission is free.

[lookedlikelaughing]

M - Eine Stadt sucht einen Mörder (Lang, ‘31)

you have a crush on every girl, she says as i try to keep my pills down as i try to keep any nicety of you after throwing everything out find a photograph from disney world tucked between pages of a short story about some warring american couple

and this is where you live now in a fissure welching on a bet when all i can think of is your bed and how i crept a coil of your thread to spool me into foolishness and silt or thickets of thin, someone who wants to love without a station to begin, and yes, yo, la peor de todas, but i mean it, i’m a sin.

[lookedlikelaughing]

fuck list

Fuck Portland no fuck Beverly Hills fuck me and fuck my skinny wrists fuck talking about wanting to kill myself and fuck not talking about wanting to kill myself fuck poetry and fuck using poetry as therapy because it’s much easier to not lie here and fuck this lazy teenage excuse for a poem. Fuck my ex and how she is because of what I did because of who I am and fuck me, again. Fuck my filthy sink fuck my need to drink fuck me wanting to take oxycontin  every single day of the week fuck the way I think and fuck following hot girls on the internet fuck thinking I’m progressive and changing while staring hot-mouthed at a 23-year-old’s ass on 2nd and Spring.

Fuck my inability to love correctly and fuck my putrid selfishness no fuck all the unanswered calls from my father fuck my purposeful foolishness and fuck! stop crying all the goddamn time.

Fuck the poet in K-town who doesn’t want to be referred to as the poet in K-town most likely because she’s scared she’ll be as nothing as that line is or as nothing as me which is, to be honest, a whole lot of nothing, a tire-fire in the iris of your eye gone out, a cum stain on your sheets washed away with me.

Fuck not speaking to my mother or ever calling my sister or knowing a single fucking thing about my brother or letting Rachel fade into ancestry.

Fuck being, just, like,  so goddamn horny all the time! smashing my needs into the corners of every new thing and fuck my awful teeth and fuck how I can’t not do this and fuck Loraine for thinking she could have a piece of me while dragging me through shit or thinking these bruises were hers and not caused by someone else (Samantha) and fuck that I came inside Dani but not that I came inside Eliza but while we’re here fuck a miscarriage but not an abortion and fuck the anvils roped into my memory that snap up and crack until I’m the excuse you need or some simmering bad memory, angry as ever and futile for fun.

Fuck Rita for dying and fuck me for not or rather fuck me for living like such a wretched snot and fuck me not telling you every beauty every day oh just fuck me until I’m a knot, or not—  fuck me for letting every holy I’ve held rot (especially the miracle from Beverly, the body of Christ in wafer piping hot.)

Oh fuck this, who’s even reading why am I even, oh, oh just, man, buddy, come on

fuck me

fuck me until I’m a wash

fuck me until I’m something you can’t repeat

fuck forcing optimism into this last beat.