A BATTLEFIELD CALLED STREETCORE
Outside I am trembling my heart is amplified and guitar-strung the space between
us is convulsive at least three times a day I hear myself singing to myself
THE TEMPERATURES ARE RISING the reality is our human siphoning
my wallpaper glued to your wallpaper in a collage of DNA I think don’t think
blackoutdon’t thinkblackout there is a light filling up my socks and light is endless
light is Joe Strummer circa everyday an impossibly funny feeling
in my battlefield my battlefield is nonsense I call it my heart a flamethrower
of nonsense tied to the back of a bus Sometimes we risk taking ourselves
too seriously like we are fat leather books labeled The Best Thing Ever when
all we should do is go to bed and be terrific ridiculously terrific and as heartbroken
as broken hearts we should drink chocolate milk and pull explosions out of
each other’s hair we should turn our hearts up to rocket and sound system our
existence because we are wailing our faces off for love wailing into the astonished
sky THE SPIRIT IS OUR GASOLINE and it feels good to take my head off
once in awhile it makes me want to build a newer world in the bedroom
a newer world where we cram sunlight into our eyes and the sunlight blasts merrily
merrily out of our mouths we are so ecstatic that we’re gasping gasping and blue-
berry beside the record player dancing a new dance we call The Streets Are
Burning because if we are not a levee and the music is not love what chance
do we have of keeping our hearts up? because it’s our hearts that float outward
to the sea our hearts enormous life vests strapped to our stupid faces We are
lucky to know the obvious from a metaphor our music so tearfully obvious
we shine our body parts into a sinister feeling and glow we glow on and on
two spotlights shining down on nothing left to say.
I ❤︎ YOUR FIRE VS I ❤︎ YOUR FACE
Every new day my friends is firecracker and I can feel your shoulders inside
my shoulders the strain is lockjaw and telescopic how I love the universe
and our muscles tearing apart how I love what we do for no good reason our
anxieties stuck in our vinyl mouths like microphones our sadnesses filling
our pants with mayonnaise we tell each other how this version of
the world is petroleum how we are the gasoline in our blue veins O the world
is dancing and it’s so cherry we’ll tell everyone we know what we know about
anguish it’s ferocious and it’s spectacular and we don’t care if our names
are earnest I’m singing our names in the shower because our names are
real and terrifying so real it hurts our faces to be full of love that’s how
I’m feeling right now and I want to caress that my love has a purpose bigger
than Cincinnati OH and I want to caress that This is something we can
agree on: clap your hands and sing yeah it’s beautiful heretoo like YEAH IT’S
BEAUTIFUL HERE TOO and I’m telling you again because that’s affection
that’s my liver at full throttle and it’s singing and I don’t know why and I feel
forever is the second-punkest word ever invented after love When it’s after mid-
night I wake up and I reach for my megaphone which is a blackout waiting
to happen which is called another Wednesday night waiting to happen All my
friends are clouds and I am grateful for the sailboats in our black holes
for the music in our faces that is so Midwest it’s a garage and a parking lot
in our guts our guts the absolute beginning and the absolute end the place in
which we reach for conclusions sewn onto our hearts our hearts suck face
and it’s more cardiovascular than bleeding more gingerbread than your freckled
soft face All my friends are rockets and I am setting my face on fire
with a snowcone and some matches I want to subwoof everyone I know
and rhinoceros our beautiful music call our music what we call our hearts
and swallow my favorite moments call our lives The New Republic of Hoopla
keep our hopes up O HOW WE KEEP OUR HOPES UP and sing each
other our favorite pop songs I’m singing us into forever-hood because we
can never die we can never die we will live forever in the shade.
biography
NATE SLAWSON is the author of Panic Attack, USA (YesYes Books, 2011) and a couple of chapbooks. He lives in Chicago.