When They Broke the Chick's Egg, A Mirror to Hold

When They Broke the Chick's Egg,
A Mirror to Hold

Looking at myself in the mirror
I see myself younger than I really am.
Soft brown hair,
falling finely on soft brow,
over shallow deep eyes,
that have seen nothing, but much.
Two lips, the bottoms full from biting,
the top thin from inexperience,
although never lacking.
Light bleached skin,
touched only by flouresants,
and high cheeks of expectancy.

I rush to my bed and hide under the covers.
I want to be 16 again,
and feel nothing- over or around me.
I throw the sheets off of me to relinquish the feeling,
and then smuggle them back on
for the security and fear I find underneath.
And they come for me calling,
"come back,
no fear- no foul to be had hiding."
I peek at monsters run amuck
and know I'll join them soon;
eventually.

-Matthew Koutzun

Taking Seconds.

Taking Seconds.

After taking the first bite,
there is the moment of immense flavor of new experience.
And after the second,
there is one of loss and gaining:
loss of the fresh beginnings on the tounge-
the gaining of fullness in yourself.

Matthew Koutzun

Meal

Meal

I've realized that the hollow feeling inside me is not loneliness.
Just hunger.
No wonder I'm so skinny and my genitals are chaffed all over.

Matthew Koutzun

Pressed Against the Fourth Wall

Pressed Against the Fourth Wall

She sits and waits,
and entrevous he does.

He talks
and baits,
and she disconcerned waits.

And now she's up and about,
in a box- all blacked out;
timing will keep this game alive.

Now he yells
now he screams;
and drama: she does as well.

And he hits
and she slaps
and the audience all clap.

And she turns
and he does to
and they look at me and you.

And they stare
now they cry
and they run at the glass between them you and I.

And pressed against the fourth wall
they want out-
to be with us all.

To stop imaginary hates
and lonesome debates.

A hand on the glass;
red- white where pressure press.

-Matthew Koutzun

Forcing to Keep

Forcing to Keep

I'm trying to relate
from somewhere between her thighs.
Taking, reaching in
such great highs.

I've punched through
and I've touched the child.
Caressed a face
soft and mild.

I've gotten my shoulder in
and I'm going to go all the friggin' way.
I don't care if it's wrong-
never cared what others say.

My head and torso
squeezed right into the moist deep.
She sighed sweetness
no sound of pain did she peep.

I'm kicking in the air
as my thighs press against hers
fighting to get in
skin in tears.

My feet in
I'm in with my boy.
He's cradled by my womb-

I know now why woman cry
when they give it away.

-Matthew Koutzun

A Refusal of Reality

A Refusal of Reality

It's bubbling up again,
that feeling of antisipation
or rather
the sick taste of anxiety.
It comes to me in hot flashes
when the world sneaks up and
the face of faceless deeds shocks me into
deadline awareness,
of things that just have not been done
nor accomplished.
It's a hot coal bath of steam
and suffocation to my chest
as thoughts of non-completion
and scared compliance follow.
I have lots of time but still I know:
it seemed like that before.
Jump on now before the horse gets away.
Take me away horse-
that's what I've always wanted.
Wind in my face so I can breathe
and steady step, sure and shallow.
Open up pasture of precious peonies,
and let light leap from lazy days.

-Matthew Koutzun

Porcelain on Colour

Porcelain on Colour

A bed with light blue
and pastel yellow sheets
hiding and combing against skin.

Plush pillow
flattening flax hair
against brow and cheek.

Cool colour
and harsh light
luminosity to the extreme.

Bright trinkets
all in a row behind
a porcelain woman dry against them.

She looks to her
and her to she in bed
and they know their story.

-Matthew Koutzun

I Know of a Place

I Know of a Place

I know of a place
where young men go
to hide their shame,
and if you love me
you'll make love to me there.

-Matthew Koutzun

I Know of a Place Where Young Men Go to Hide Their Shame: And if You Love Me You'll Make Love to Me There

I Know of a Place Where Young Men Go to Hide Their Shame:
And if You Love Me You'll Make Love to Me There

I know of a place
where young men go
to hide their shame.

My friend once told me that
he hid it in his big toe,
that if you slammed it hard enough
you'd see him cry-
not from the pain
but the guilt that would leak out.

I've looked for it there
and all I can find
is flesh
and more flesh
and further enough
you can reach the bone.

-Matthew Koutzun

Our Unknown Girl

Our Unknown Girl

There was a story of a girl they found
dead
in her apartment.
They said that she had been there for months
laying on a clean mattress
now dirty from the decay
and mold
and shit
rotting from her bones.
They found her because a woman had sad she smelt something
she had reported the smell almost two months before they checked.

The girl knew no one they said,
her neighbours didn't even know they had neighbour
and no family nor phone to call her with.
In a room
On a floor
In her own private hovel,
in a nice part of london.
The girl should have friends.

They cleaned her up-
tossed her out.
Buried,
or cremated-
who knows;
no one knew her.
All she had left was the mattress
and her laptop
plugged in
the screen fryed from months of pixels burning.

And the police took it
for a motive.
There might be something
the unknown girl left behind.
The girl with no one to know.

And they took out the hard drive
and connected it to another screen
and when they turned it on
everything from when she had stopped
was still working-
stopped in it's own tracks.
And what the police saw made them cry
and made them sick.

Hundreds of open little windows
with a million little chatters still chatting with her
some still talking,
others miffed had gone away.
Love interests,
companions,
friends,
no family.
She had them all by the ton
each one of them half way around the world.

The room had been 8 meters by 6,
but it held the earth once.
And on each little window
of the ones still typing
were more windows
and more people
and more windows
and more people looking through more windows
to find people on the other side-
halfway around the House.

And they reached in and caressed the heads
of wantons
of faggots
of housewives
of butchers,
of children
of fathers,
of players,
and of murderers.

And they found a full house all through one window,
turned it off
and walked away.

-Matthew Koutzun

Random nights again

Random nights again

I'm staying up late again
into the night
and closing my eyes for a moment
before they are open again
and I am hungry
or I want to be busy
or I want to talk
or to jump
or to just get some rest.
And my ears feel plugged
and the silence plugs them further,
and I stare at flouresant lights
and send off strange e-mails
or try to create connections where there are none.
I'm up later again,
and I can't locate
symptome to cause,
but the cough is gone
and I could very well sleep now
but I can't
and it feels like I'm waiting again,
I used to do this in high school
sit here waiting,
for something-
I don't know-
anything
or anyone
to occupy me
Fuck the connected generation
for communication and speaking with another
has left me lonely again.

-Matthew Koutzun

Untitled Confession

Untitled Confession

I had a dream about you last night-
I have to tell you
because I find it perverse not to.
I debated all day whether to
but I thought it was nessecary.
I feel I should
because it's like one of those feelings
that makes your insides all mush
without the feeling of being sick.
All that happened was you won an award.
I don't know what came before or after this fact-
but it's the only one I can remember now.
You beat the human race,
or won the game of life;
congratulations on your belated happiness.

-Matthew Koutzun

My Body/My Saviour

My Body/My Saviour

My Body.:
My Saviour.:
My truant to the end.
You are the helper
by destroying what sleep I need
but saving my life from the plugged in toaster
the drier I left running
the oven left on
the side window open
and anything else I've forgot.
Thank you for nagging me awake
to save yourself
of the things I did wrong in my wake.

-Matthew Koutzun

A Loving Offence

A Loving Offence

On the plane we arrive
sit side by side.
She neatly composing herself
to resign quietly to her seat.
I sit and relax,
nestling my head back
hoping to get some sleep.

So does she and within moments
she is gone.
Vapid to the world,
eyelids shut
and dreams open,
such as her upturned palm
resting on the rest.

It so delicately upturned:
pink,
tender,
facing up.
Limp and loose
and dangling along the side
tempting like the anchor.

I slowly reach,
and look to see
if anyone passes by.
And silent and deadly
I sneak slowly in;
my fingers penetrating
hers to embrace.

And it's simple
and a comfort
and a sullen mood I'm in
as I sink away
past verse
...
to sleep.

I gone-
she awakes,
moist heat in her hand
and urine in her gullet.
Surprised she removes my hand from hers
placing it gently to the side.
Up she's gone to relief.

I awaken,
she's gone-
there can be no way
she jumped from the plane:
afraid.
I know her return will bring
back the awkwardness.

I look:
see her astride,
and slip back in faux sleep.
More tense
than one sleeping should be
as her weight shifts beside me
as she snuggles right in.

And she lays back
and she's nervous as I
as she reaches back over
taking my hand
slipping each finger back inside,
letting each reside
where each one once were.

And she looks over to me
as I now look back her
both of us awake as ever.
And lean into her
as her nervous smiles forms,
as I whisper:
"That's a loving offence if I ever".

-Matthew Koutzun

Blushing for Strawberries

Blushing for Strawberries

The queer little girl
with brown shimmer hair,
the light bounce in a step,
the curl of her hips-
which ensnares.
With bobbed wire fingers,
and cut simple brow,
a hold on silk lips,
peppered dashes-
for eyebrows.

A walk with passion
a quip with intent
to changing to a saunter
and peering down
then up from cement.
A man never sees it coming,
and never will,
from a girl blushing
over strawberries-
from behind the till.

-Matthew Koutzun