On my way to the Pointless Climax

On my way to the Pointless Climax

Nothing to write
right now.
Feel empty
and the tight sensation at the point
where head touches neck
hasn't come in days.
That's inspiration, that spasm.
That coy tension that
pinches
my lobe.

I feel it now as I write this
right now.
It's feigning muse
and strangely
calling this art
even though It only lies
to try and make me
feel better.

I shouldn't being writing
right now.
I feel no idea to climax on
to churn
and butter out.
But if I keep writing
right now
maybe
I'll find it anyway.

-Matthew Koutzun

In the corner of a club

In the corner of a club

Beautiful people
doing beautiful things.
Up turn wrists
and delicate handling,
with heads held high
and tight stern brow.

Beautiful people doing beautiful things:
smiling,
sweet conversation,
and leaning in when just right.

Light catching eye
and shadow dance on cheek;
lifting
and separating
angle acute
and cute obtuse.

Beautiful people
doing beautiful things.
Nothing more or less to say
only to observe.

-Matthew Koutzun

The Hook

The Hook

Prey,
Tell me how you feel,
Silver fish in front of me.

Pray,
whisper me your song,
unheard in depths of ponds.

Prey,
capture
and captivate me with struggle.

Pray:
be set free,
from hidden line and sought hook.

-Matthew Koutzun

Silent Letters

Silent Letters

"No more Silent Letters," I screamed,
and an uproar was heard in the crowd.

"No more Silent Letters," I howled,
again to the ragged playground.

"They are there and let them be heard!
why should they lie silent? Let them stand and be bold!
Too long have the laid against the letters they stand beside,
they are there
they are there
they are there!"

"Silent child," I said to the little girl,
"SPEAK UP AND SAY YOUR NAME!"

"..."

"I SAID SPEAK UP!"

"...a..."

"A, you say?"

"A."

"A, YOU SAY?"

"A!"

"That's right you're A!
And everyone one of you are A
and never let them say you're less."

-Matthew Koutzun

Hear of this and Come Again

Hear of this and Come Again

There are variations of love.
Of those we're told,
we hear of only one.

Of soft words,
and I love yous.
Of tender touch
and smolder cues.

There are variations of love-
my friend,
hear of this and come again.

There is a loyalty,
and a care,
of talks intense
and truths to bare.

There are variations of love-
we're told,
of those we think and those we hold.

-Matthew Koutzun

Myopic -or- No More Silent Letters

Myopic
-or-
No More Silent Letters

Reduce me
make me smaller, make me the tiny blip on your radar screen.
Call me stupid,
make yourself feel better, I'm the only one you have and yet you push to pull.
Talk about me,
oh I do of you too, but not to reduce you, to diminish you in front of those you think care.
Fuck you,
you think you do everything, when it's me doing the work for two.
Oh me,
I've gone and spilled the beans again, my letters not silent, I guess this will be my fault too.

-Matthew Koutzun

Taking Part in the Sound

Taking Part in the Sound

That felt like all the love I ever had,
wound up in moments I had a while ago.
Felt like fleeting, heart still beating,
drums taking part in my sound.

I can't tell you what transpired,
or the hurt and heartbreak I found.
But it felt like fleeting, a heart stopping beating,
drums beat slowing my sound.

I can tell you what moments,
oh the happy moments, of heartbreak sounds.
But sure to be meeting, that would be me just fleeing,
back to comfortable grounds.


But let me tell you of love
of sweet uncomfortable love,
the kind that makes us want and tell our truths.

It comes in the moments
oh sweetheart, heartbreak moments,
when we tell the hardest truths first.

So this is love,
giving away love,
letting it flee on its way.

And let me tell you dear,
through all of the fear,
we still have the smiles on our face.

-Matthew Koutzun

We are People

We are People

It's harder to be with people than I thought.
Harder to make the connections.
If we think long and hard
no one really is connected with another.
Not even sister, brother, father, mother, aunt, and uncle, son, and daughter, acquaintance, relations, friend, foe, or idol dear.
We are people to one another.
Not owned by the other.
And other not owned by us.
We live separate
yet together.
It's harder to be with people than I thought.
We can leave
or stay
or stagnate
or flourish.
And we are people.
Hard to live with.
More than I thought.
We are people.
Undressed we are the same.
We are people.
We are people.

-Matthew Koutzun

Alone in my Bed in the Morning -or- When the Silhouette goes Missing

Alone in my Bed in the Morning
-or-
When the Silhouette goes Missing

When I woke up in the morning
and found God was no longer in my bed-
I retreated back to sleep.

He left in the morning, quietly,
coming only for the night to slumber
since I invited him in my prayers.

Who knew he'd come and listen
and press his back against mine?
If I turned around
what would I have seen?


Oh, I laid there silently;
a cool touch on my side
and a nimble finger on my brow.


He ran his fingers through my hair
all nerves spiking- sharping- cutting- tickling defeat.
And I, I pretended sternly to be asleep.
What would I say if he knew I could speak?

But now in the morning all I can remember
is a strange mounting calm
and the feeling of stimulation all through my side.

It was as if a mist had shifted me:
filled my lungs
and crushed them
and held my heart
pumping it faster
blood taking the lives of nerves
and nerves dying at sensation.

Oh love of Mary,
you were with me too
and pressed your belly against me:
alive with possibility
and life.

And God you left me in the morning,
dried skin, and moist eyes, and crusted mouth
where I felt the silver of the kissed cross.

I drink a glass of water
clear not to wash the taste away
but in hopes of keeping it in me forever.

And after awakening from my morning dream,
pondering the day,
wonder if I pray again,
will my back feel
cool pressure press the same way-

-Matthew Koutzun

Untitled

Untitled

.


I thought this would be better-
you told me it would go back if we decided.
You promised.
You promised.
You promised.
You promised.
You promised.
You promised.
And it goes over in my head all the time.


But I guess I decided.
I decided it could not go the way it was.
and I thought back to a promise
knowing it my safety
my care for you.


But I guess promises are always broken
each day.
And I guess words are thrown around
each day.
Because I guess they mean the same
whenever they're said.


Not that I ever believe that.
I want them special-
rare-
sacred-


It makes me regret the change-
the shift as you say-
knowing it would "end" this way
not being able to go back-
as you said it would, you said.


I'm at pause
and all at once angry
that you won't be what you were.


I look back
and am angry at myself
when I entered it was
perhaps
because I feared it would all go away.


I would do anything for it not to go away.


But not every
thing.


I don't have many of you
or what you were
here.


.

-Matthew Koutzun

Passive Manipulator

Passive Manipulator

Passive Manipulator
think you know better.
Twisting my words for your gain.

Taking my beauty
and turning it against me
taking my creation to imbue such pain.

You say you don't do it
but you take the things that are mine:
my ideas and thoughts,
and try to tarnish them with dirty cloth.

Oh Passive Manipulator
I thought you knew better.
Thinking you don't when you do.

-Matthew Koutzun

Our Short Visit

Our Short Visit

It's nice to know you still visit
long after I've left.
I visit too
hoping to find something
never here at the right time.

I find it hard to know you still visit
long after I leave.
I don't wait either
it's not your fault
nor can I find any fault in me.

The place we come to visit
long after we left;
it's nice
but we know it:
it couldn't sustain itself for long.

But lets both know we visit
after it's been too long.
Lets both know
we can visit
even though we've been here all along.

-Matthew Koutzun

The Conundrum of the Mold

The Conundrum of the Mold

From the ash and mud
god made a son
and admired at such invested heart-
"Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves,
'It's pretty, but is it Art?'"

God looked to him
and was shocked
although he new well of horned game-
He though awhile and probed his way,
"It is, but what's your aim?"

The Devil smirked
and raised his brow
he knew he ought to dig again-
but he thought a moment and all he said was,
"I leave that to you my friend."

God was confused
what could it mean
he pondered at his creation-
he saw what looks
and hear what sounds
and felt what emotions
human hid.

And he came back to the Devil
creation in hand
head held low and with shame-
He knew the answer to the riddle,
"It's a forgery in my name."

And the Devil laughed
oh a mighty laugh
at how God must have felt-
He looked at him and confessed it all
"Such a fool to make yourself!"

And God looked up
and a same smirk formed
as he came by the devils ear just to part-
and from the leaves God questioned him of error:
"It's pretty, but is it art?"

-Matthew Koutzun


The excerpt "Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, 'It's pretty, but is it Art?'" is taken from Orson Welles' "F for Fake" as read from Rudyard Kipling's "The Conundrum of the Workshops". I had just watched "F for Fake" today and it etched a very neat question in my brain about forgery and art and whether authorship is necessary in its dealings. I can't answer those questions here but I certainly can, but I leave you to watch the film and then question yourself from there before you respond- if you do. But even so, I hope you like the poem. Goodnight. I try not to lie to you.

In this no ones home.

In this no ones home.

Lets just leave
while the going's good-
while the chairs are empty,
and no one's home.

Let's just leave
the parlor and the room-
the lights are off,
and no one's home.

Lets just leave
while there's still time-
the furniture's covered,
and no one's home.

Lets just leave
it all at that-
I'm not returning,
and no one's home.

Let's just leave
since it's over-
it only was an empty time,
and no one's home.

Let's just leave
no hurt feelings-
the boxes never unpacked
in this no ones home.

-Matthew Koutzun

The List

The List

The list is quite demanding:
organizing change.
It's optical
and ever waiting
there on the page before me.
I've written them
and they are daunting.
They'll never be erased
if I don't stick to them soon.
So I start a spreadsheet
and list the demands.
Oh, I'll be changing.
Soon.

-Matthew Koutzun