Kyle Hemmings

She turned 17 for no one.
  By the time she reached wet streets,
her lilies-of-the-valley turned paper.
As a dancer in a dive, she learned to see
muffed lemurs in the eyes of crippled men,
  to break the code of wired-twins
in illegal box sets. A gangster’s afterglow
  was her sad dwarf of longing. She spilled
  scalding coffee on the transvestite
with bulging eyes, the one who owned her
below the Chat Noirs, the cabarets of silent lips.
  In the new Depression, she lived on the French Apple
Crumb of a lover too small for his tweed suits.
She lost a daughter to April. She cried between
the lines of someone else’s memoir.
With the fading of pulp heroes,
she gave up on automatic typewriters.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on October 23, 2012, in Kyle Hemmings, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes Kyle Hemmings with this, the first of three poems. I love his imagery, and I couldn’t help thinking, for some reason, of The Velvet Underground.

  2. Kyle Hemmings masks his fragments of wormed words in layers charming underground sites
    just high enough up for us to view his enlightened yet devastating pitchfork language again to challenge and unman with a clever bi coastal shuffling of a sexy ingenuous boldness, reminding us of a poet in a sad cafe looking out of the French blinds of windows on the decadence and cadences of the world’s woes and nuances. Congratulations,Kyle for expanding our parochial concinnity beyond clandestine debauches of a mere a one dimensional masculinity.

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