Blake Butler


:: Two wide bright screens on a food field :: On each screen a face up so close it’s mostly only visible as flesh; the shot will continue in this way for our protection :: :: Enormous roaring sunlight :: :: One body speaking to the other though we can’t make out either mouth :: Ssseeeeeee? Ii do kare. Ii do do it N U. I do do do do EAT all of U Ii kan now. When therrrre issss 0 time left N the COMMON WINDOW 4 us 2 begin 2 learn 2 know a way thru 1 in2 the other of us. Yes Now Ii m ready like Holy Fukkk. Ii want u spreadd acrost the entire platform open glowing CHILD u r MY CHILD. The agate Eye can or will not B reconstrukted N this Era, which obliterates our ability 2 Touch. & yet. Ii. Kan. Not. STOPPPPPPPP this shriekkking feeling N my abdomen & saks. Kan’t count who wasn’t made of me today becuz of How I Beat My Head againsttt the keybboard in the throes awayting Deconstruktion. Yr Father wuz my LIFE. Overboard again beginning where Who waits to lay againsttt me in His place. Ii WEAR THE SKKKULL OF A HORSE in my LIBRARY so as Ii Kan memorizzzze the books of Lamar and Jackson, previousely konsidered deleted, like my-ability-to-Laugh. :: You realize you are covered in a custard; it is blood-colored :: You feel the camera pressed against your head :: It hurts :: :: It feels like someone you remember growing older over several hundred thousand years; your chest is flapping :: Ssseeeeeeieeeee? It IS a Wondrous Earth, N Ii do feel U. Ii M all up N yr hell. NOW Spread : Now Knock those Lights out : Yes O Now now now OPEN Up a HOLE. :: Snow erupts across the platform, the sun is shaking, some teeth can be seen :: :: Soundglitch of several thousand knives :: :: Very quickly white becomes the only kolor ::

Poem's Score: 0.4

Blake Butler is in Atlanta.


For July 2013,
Everyday Genius is pleased to present poems that were rated below 0.4 on the "Poetry Assessor"—a tool that "is designed to determine whether a poem has the characteristics of a professional poem, or, alternatively, an amateur poem.
We publish the poems here, with their scores, not to confirm the Assessor's judgment, but to allow human readers to decide for themselves.

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