Volume 16 ~ Spring 2004 ~ ISSN 1543-6063

DENNIS COOPER

The Faint

This is an immaterial poem about a ghost,
name of Dennis. I appear less important
to those few among you who knew me
when I was composed more realistically.

Once my empty sockets seemed like evil
eyes to you, and you had no idea their
trick wasn’t great art. Now I barely exist,
but train your sights on this nevertheless.

It’s past your bedtime. I’ve painted myself
into a corner. A ghost has been sketched
here haphazardly. I’m still myself but inspire
no illusions no matter how I’m executed.

To believe in a ghost was small potatoes,
next to the fear in your eyes. I scared you.
All I was is this marked up white sheet, so.
I ask you again. Read into my black holes.



November 17, 1987

George goes to bed depressed.
He wakes up suicidal and more.
Something has really changed.
If he had a gun, he’d know what.

If he lived somewhere else he
might drag his ass onto some
bridge over whatever river and
feel too scared to throw it off.

What happened last night, day,
or before that on the weekend?
Wished he had a gun, but way
before that in total innocence?

He’d slip one finger in the trigger.
Who’d know? Put the barrel to
his head. Who ‘d say why not?
No one else, but he would pull it.



I MIGHT
(The Luxury Liners)

I let Peter and Tim sleep
it off on my couch bed.
They had sex for hours
until I punched the wall.
I slept through breakfast.

Peter helped make lunch.
Tim and he took the bus
to the new shopping mall.
They bought two DVDs
and a certificate for me.

I found a note from Peter
in Tim’s fallen backpack.
He took the news calmly.
He’d wanted to tell me
but thought I’d freak out.

His eyes look like mine.
Our ideas are different.
We walked a few blocks.
I asked him to choose
and so he dumped me.

I realize Tim fucked me
because he felt flattered.
He thinks less of me now.
He apologized profusely
then took off with Peter.

Peter fucked me for kicks.
He kept his sweatshirt on,
rolled up past the elbows.
He washed his hands of
me by the next afternoon.

Tim is a painter who did
my portrait that summer.
They met at an opening
where I coveted Peter’s
very flattering self-portrait.

Tim arrived here crying
the morning they broke up.
He crashed on the couch.
It turned into his bedroom.
Now they both live there.

They might not stay long.
They could turn out to
be less than great artists.
We’ll all feel so cheated.
That’s no reason to budge.

Poems © Dennis Cooper 2004. All rights reserved.

Duncan Hannah
www.jamesgrahamandsons.com

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