what i would say by Matt Margo

what i would say

Matt Margo

Author’s Note: The poems that comprise this chapbook consist of language generated by what-would-i-say.com, a website that gathers phrases from all of your Facebook posts and mashes them together algorithmically. I wish to thank the Princeton University students who created what-would-i-say.com for making this chapbook possible as well as Peanut Gallery Press for publishing my work.

Table of Contents the mirror reflecting ~ 4 insects’ song ~ 5 also e.e. ~ 6 après céline ~ 7 our together ~ 8 cyclical (1) ~ 9 cyclical (2) ~ 10 from a feeling of polepost in technicolor ~ 11 a mysterious murder, a ~ 12 survey ~ 13 story ~ 14 an aspiration ~ 15 my body into my hands ~ 16 weak end ~ 17 repugnant ~ 18 certain city clams ~ 19 as much as ~ 20 foe tha love of this ~ 21 what would i say ~ 22 green knight ~ 23 her am and him think ~ 24 currents ~ 25 xerxes the blowfish ~ 26

the mirror reflecting it’s too hard, it is a poem dedicated to faraway screeches by the killer, the chorus of this universe in which the best biff bitter blonde born is the devil—666, a tightness in a chase after the lights live. there may be alive. has anyone else ever flirted with shots of stones and sticks of firewood? the number is the sentence, the number is watching tonight.

insects’ song insects’ song needs to flourish. the uncharacteristic sentence calls it a fantasy novel. if i’m just saying, i’m just watching— bawling, screaming, daydreaming happy little dreams, that strange habit of it all. i am finally locked in and chuckling at the little boys and the stars, and that uncharacteristic sentence gargling endless nameless chemicals, their slack, false continuity.

also e.e. also e.e. that they say and i know the same poem wavering, the flame of year‌ before he left yellowed yes you, i stayed inside and stretched my legs, lying to no end, toward the tale made to sedate me, the form that still suffers, changing the game with disappointed and suicidal thoughts blaring from dragon bog doublends.

après céline more messages and then again bathwater beneath the valley… standing still deeper down: the mature escapist of everything— everything that is poetry and the smallness of you. words cannot accurately express universal concerns, urban astronauts, a link to a clump of clouded and dirty realism everywhere—everywhere exactly— the same way back to the grave.

our together our together will be close to the folks who say that they are not so willing to donate a copy of the conference on my practically perfect days, on my bones and rings licking the dead— flowers for lunch and humans themselves, attempts to escape oral culture‌ there are too many people worldwide.

cyclical (1) it feels so special to me, sleepaddled at the plot or the tooloud sound of the themself then there— the attic, where carmen is so very excited to be a particular somethingness: nirvana, however it be known… ‘action’ appears innately for the other. i walk back to remind myself why and i return to it, a total of disquiet. nothing may dwell within me.

cyclical (2) nothingness leads to what is incomplete. a splintered pine, yellowing— now it’s none? perversity in the ocean of human life, close to the fire of a computer screen, and what language becomes is perhaps a bookbag full of rivals, an axiom. sometimes the night’s a merry one. first time in years tonight.

from a feeling of polepost in technicolor from a feeling of polepost in technicolor, startled by the crowd— the westernized anagram of lyrics with endless thought waves, everlastingly fortunate— as nightfall washes over and around and around my hometown, the common cool corner in all of twilight.

a mysterious murder, a a mysterious murder, a wizard, a combination of exhaustion and tobacco, my taste runs off, wallpapered, a field full of insights, somehow forgotten ages— these ones cost me a second nature naturally matted. whitewalled rooms begin to be a sort of inside, restoring everything‌

survey from the poet was a survey pulled out of the art, beginning again— the narrative, or more importantly, the list price. they both have laughed at the bar. disorder, chaos, and antonyms evaluate the dive behind the sense of panic in the name of november that newborn babies carry, especially when they crown themselves. had a knife fight with no one. had a vision in prose.

story irresponsible toys circle wildly, forcefully awoken by the sick shewolf—the genocide and the estimated health complications. when artists accuse other artists of really struggling with institutional collectors or uninstalling then reinstalling solace in my wording, attractions emerge and evolve, and so reemerge, sobered, tossing to tv unison.

an aspiration i hope to alleviate an alphabetic reflection in the style of political surveillance— a tv gameshow audience embedded in celebration, still not satisfied. the crisis belittles itself. mutation’s executor is dedicated to loving, sitting in the same signifier. wear the world. you’re almost finished.

my body into my hands my body into my hands, a ceremony to celebrate what was water— just a mere reflection… there is my friend from the world that i am watching, but now it’s gone now and all moving verses repeat, linguistics and semiotics that we examine and explore through transcribing an unreality, a falsity, a synonym for assassin…

weak end i am a college student, drunk off campus. i have felt in one world the gospel of joy which echoes out beyond a medal of honor. people seem to be fairly confident about ever traveling. i have notathing to reserve. i have no excuse to anyone. hollywoodcopyrighted money machines occupy a diorama, passing faster and faster every day. i cannot help but wallow.

repugnant i fuck with a hook in my penis. i have you, the sun behind the age of the gulf. our love is a blood drive— it cums back. my teeth and my handwriting‌ plaguing myself, i have nothing to say, and i cannot help you.

certain city clams certain city clams feel genuinely happy. i want to have the full sincerity of all the epics. the stress continues. lost in my head, i am, defaulting to mimicking. here is a complex pattern, a good feeling— something like an enormous tool, the final product of some public sphere.

as much as hey golgotha, my son climbed out of autumn and pointed to particles swallowed by beams of balance. blow a slow analysis of clouds, endless clouds, endless clouds‌ be honest with me: do you really walk outside and feel interested in a vertical ascent, that lesser priority for anyone else?

foe tha love of this the money i linger over is due entirely to hours spent sitting around in the great solar system designed to be known as a kmart. the money i shoot only wants to maintain direct eye contact, construct interesting beats, and stare at my workplace. my money is a poem wandering down mountains, not a big word, just a thought, a calming wash, a spike through a structural godsend.

what would i say if your computer could write scenes of winter, conveying internal conflict, a mimetic imitation of real life, the dark green lawns and their histories, all artificially conferred and decided by the future of literature, what would it say? what would i say? i don’t know… i feel focused on how to dream in darkness. i am who i am, the skeleton of a computer…

green knight green knight— what happened to having rumbling static, noise jazz with lordosis? what happened to having a morethanable, adept sound of one’s own, abstract at the moment of conceptualizing, a stark departure from lonely hours? what happened to having less cash to spare, more soundscape masterpieces?

her am and him think her am and him think as they always do anymore, no matter what. i have taken from bad, bad bags the drug of me, the common man: the days of silence, the distance imaginative and inventive, fibbing to the ears of the house up petty pride and above the bookstore, ultimately insignificant. but i’ve yet to lift your legs out of the furnace of the other.

currents during spring— boiling water, dishing out hundreds upon hundreds of buttnaked abstractions for the sake of avoiding confrontation, heading to bed early— three days departed, died. a ghost passed through the hydrosphere and— whispering aloud— became further uninterested in the dissipated ocean surf.

xerxes the blowfish the blowfish: it’s less an ironic statement than a battle between coyotes, another trip on behalf of those unhappiest moments never heard of… this narrow thudding timeshaped face has always been much more less prevalent, more insecure and curious, here inside the sun’s lifespan— faintly falling, filtered almost solely through the chest, the same repeated experience of you with no words of wanting me.