John Dorsey

In his own words:

John is adored by high school girls everywhere, he also has a large mountain of money, mostly Canadian. He recently co-authored the book "The Price of Sunshine" with Iris Berry, forthcoming from Feel Free Press.

Read his work now.

the briefcase

It's the agreed 7, 47 minutes ago, at the Zoo, looking awkward but in a clever mask. Ghouls and ghosts queue and vomit their tickets on request. I ask Frankenstein who seems keen to assist:
- No, this is the only entrance,
- No, it's for one night only.
- Have you purchased a raflle ticket yet?
Back at the Motel there is a message and a floppy disk at reception, but no briefcase. Still, it was my idea.

1. d.a. levy's shotgun
2. Ted Berrigan's soul
3.a Terry Burton painting
4. any record by the MC5
5. a copy of Jim Carroll's "organic trains"
6. Iris's cellphone # 
7. condoms
8. a bottle of Glen Livet Scotch whiskey
9. No, make that a case of bottles of Glen Livet Scotch whiskey
10. a copy of Eugene Ruggles "A Lifegaurd in the Snow".  

www.irisberry.com
www.undergroundvoices.com
www.thepaladin.com
www.laurahird.com
www.feelfreepress.co.uk
www.zygoteinmycoffee.com
www.dublinquarterly.com

John Dorsey

the white ghosts
(for terry burton)

sit moaning in  classrooms
you build   your own chains
while Jessica swoons   singing
in my dreams   she
was the mermaid

and a.d. winans listened
to bobby darin on haight street
complaining about  his
teeth 

and said "fuck lawrence ferlinghetti, for
selling the t.v. rights to
the revolution!"

they are  all
white ghosts

they are  all
craving a stolen  kiss

love   
        american
        style

panhandling for daydreams after midnight

i shouldn’t have to tell you   to raise
a lighter at a concert she screamed
marveling when i came back   with
i shouldn’t have to tell you   why on every april 5^th
i light a candle for
allen ginsberg   mumbling the words to howl
in my sleep   how i’ve never understood the words
to eric clapton’s “cocaine”   except for
the part about the nose candy
i shouldn’t have    to tell you
that listening to most   poetry readings
is like watching   a priest spurt on
the sistine chapel   how true love
in playing hide and go   seek
which when i was   little
came out like hide and ghost   seek
that was when i could still hear   my mother’s
footsteps   now it’s the ghosts that count
back to me   after all this
she looking at me   as if I puked
on her copy of   “the belljar”

her eyes concluding with   i shouldn’t have
have to tell you   that’s a classic
this time i was the one   screaming
i wouldn’t have to tell you to put
your head in the oven   if you
had gotten past   the cliffnotes

my eyes wandering toward   patterson nj
peace out
                    allen

i want to murder the moon

for bringing divinity
on our skin

for constantly    making henry rollins
refine chaos            into a honeyed tongue's reprise

for referring to ghosts
as shadows

until spirits are left crying
moaning lament    like johnny thunders echo

i want to murder the moon
for dogging my words

for chasing me into alleys   of endearment
with loveletters loud and angry

the moon is a punk

the moon spends    half the night shadowboxing
is afraid of the dark         is the reason martin luther king jr.'s dreams

where never realized
have been treated with    the respect
of shadow puppets

once i had a dream
that i murdered the moon  
didn't check for a pulse

i was a dog   howling
it was a one night stand

saying, "hey baby"
sometimes your eyes      just kill me
it's all over now    baby blue

when i get through    with you
you'll be a dead star

the night is slow
like bloody murder...

What if John Berryman wrote love songs?

                I.

what would that be like?
something along the lines
of let's just jump and stew
i mean let's get drunk and screw
yeah, that's it
say it      with some feeling

if john berryman wrote love songs
they would be translated
into ghetto hebrew by saul bellow
forming constellations in harvard square
elergies for a not yet            forgotten delmore schwartz
clutching his chest
in the haunted phantom hallways of the times square motel
burning roman candles
for body heat
in the summer of 1966

                II.

if john berryman wrote love songs
they would contain              cute bitter little lines
like, "poets wives have rotten lives, just ask
eileen, ann, and raven haired kate"
the only peace coming in drink
to help the demons sleep

if john berryman wrote love songs
he would scream at mr.bones
do you know who we were?
the bright young men
now only dark laughter
teddy at the shallow end
randall struck down
a gentle deer in headlights
only another         pitcher of martinis for henry
fucking mistress bradstreet
without a sailor's raincoat

                III.

if john berryman wrote love songs
he would put the 5th in 5th beatle
mccartney said hey jude
but he really meant hey judas
the fake name on cupid's passport
i'm calling to you                  in my "stop in the name
of love" voice, he could always
be heard coughing

if john berryman wrote love songs
he would have to share
songwriting credit with roy orbison
because only the lonely
would ever turn to poetry
for answers
knowing that it's more important       to ask the questions
which had no doubt, leapt from his lips
like pieces from a jigsaw
soured whiskey daydream

                IV.

if john berryman wrote love songs
he'd ask the question
how many giants must be cast out
before dylan thomas can be named a saint?
flecks of smoke     flying from his beard
sparking the hills of swansea

if john berryman wrote love songs
they would be for his children
paul, martha, and sarah
and other with chris
he never claimed
like his father before him
following the family tradition
only another pitcher of martinis
for henry                screaming
stop in the name of love
just quit                 while you're ahead

© All poems copyright John Dorsey 2004 and all are reproduced with kind permission.

Please email me if you want to contact the author.