MiPOesias Magazine

BRIAN HOWE

Brian Howe is a freelance writer and poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. His music writing appears regularly in Pitchfork Media and Paste Magazine, and his poems have been featured in a variety of publications.

Foreign Letter

Thanks a lot for the lines. Adorable.
Haven't wrote you for a while,
months of silence and loneliness and then
I got a telephone call of my friend
who lives in Amsterdam for a year.
He's in town this week, so he visited me
on Sunday. It was quite nice,
but he generalises too much.
I talked with another student,
I only had my lefthandwriter
and from my point of you
he transports this picture
smaller than I had in my memory.
I'm realizing, how I damage it like always.

There are two boys,
very funny, sweet and amicable
who confuse me with their attention.
It's the same story like in my past.
Very stressy. Three days before my exam
we were on the verge to kiss
each other, but it didn't function.
That's a weird situation for me.
I don't like law at the moment,
I'll have to learn 1000 pages,
there are holes in the walls
and all the old flagstones are away.
I'm doing calligraphy,
much to do and to worry about
learning Hebrew and paragraphs.

Perhaps I will go to a hostel
in Rotterdam or another city.
I will promenade next to the hostel
and thinking of our adventure,
sending good thoughts over the ocean.
Do you have a second name?
Good luck with your removal!
The time I shared with you
in Amsterdam can't be outgun.

Foreign Letter (Doom Kick Remix)

It's the mesa loft or the seadog rabble
Menthols ice nicer and lone ones and then
Bath engine rallies too ouch
Whole hives in edams forage art

Heist not this sweet, some viscid time
Unsung day, two squats entice
I talk honor, thirst's advent
And form upon taffy

He tramps artist hips cuter
Smile thaw dim yet gory
Dents hath elision emends
Realty with each toy hour

There are owl sobs
Yummy tweeds and acumens
Who eunuch me with their naiveté
Very shyster

Earth sad before my mace

We were on the energy of silk
But it didn't unbutton

That's a dire intuition for me
I don't wail at the omen
I'll have a thousand sagas
There are silos in the slaw

The doll gala senates are awed
And I'm doing callow graphs
Much to ode and to borrow togas
Genuinely warble with air seraphs

Seraph I will go to a luster
Retarded in another attic

I will probe nape extant to the letch
And honking of our advert nature
Gender's doom thought over the neon

Do you have a deacon’s élan?
Doom kick with your leotard
The item I dread with our masters
In drama can't be nugatory