One of the more exciting parts of putting together each print edition is getting to sort through the submissions in awe of the creatives we share our small section of the universe with. One of the more disappointing parts is having to narrow down those submissions to fit within the space limitations of a tangible medium. We could only choose one poem from Christopher Savage to feature in Junkie Business. Here is a chance to get all the more familiar with his work. Savage has a background in sociology and English. He lives in Austin, Texas, was the founder of the art collective The Boho Cocos, and currently is at work on a novel.

 

Five Poems by Christopher Savage

 

down in the out

feeling
white blankets

in

small doses

he reads from dystopian novels

and
now

streetlamps are criminal and
sex
is disclosed to empty mailboxes and
flickering screens.

the future might
be some
sensation

but it’s too late and the echo of early hours
has already collapsed

 


 

I’m probably somewhere in the middle of the American list of who can kill who

sure, looks
are
everything and what are looks,

but I’m about average height,
and I’m

male, I’m white,

I’m pretty okay, I was athletic, I’m just
a bit shy of middle age, so, statistically, sure, in America,
I’m probably

about in the middle of the list of who can kill who.

old people: no problem; young people, like kids: sure, I can probably
take them too.
rock stars: I’m not sure, depends, depends on how much they rock, how
much they drink, if they want to be destroyed or not, if they even want to fight.

everybody else, like who is who, who wants who, who eats who,
that’s all up for grabs. I’ll say, probably, I’m pretty angry but I’m also feckless,
so, maybe I can take half the country, half the country takes me.

boil it down to this: I’m ready to not ever be violent,
I mean, c’mon,
I’m a poet and I like pretension,
so even though maybe I could have some rage at the fact that

I’ve known alcoholics and I’ve seen the death of unions, and
and and
I can really get down with breaking glass,
I’m still pretty sensitive, and I like concrete imagery, and I
really enjoy literature,
so

again

again as
Walt said again,
oh, America, maybe I’m only ready to be killed by half of you,
but, but, but,
but,

does that half even know that I’m ready, and if so, and if so,
so what, if so,

America I’m only half way through the middle of you.

 


 

a bit of birdsong

right now

some shy bird sings
across the afternoon,

whether it’s mating
or

musing,

and the breeze feels kind

 


 

midnight snips

creeped in bedroom specters

grab
curtain rods and unleash rattling lightning
shakes

and the mistress wakes and
screams and her hair
collapses

and the chandelier
in the room below shivers
and tingles

and the master jumps down the stairs and howls
with

his massive teeth and the
children in their rooms quake and taunt their blankets
and
dark corners and doorways

and the night becomes upturned and the heretics of
silence undo their faces and
the harmonies of stillborn landscapes cover blackened skies

 


 

whiskey and water

he mistakenly
stumbled into the wrong doorway around
midnight
citing some cowboy lyric about
being over the mountains, under the clouds,

and then he broke a window
and
shouted at an alley cat and got stuck
in

his leaving off yesterday way

 

 

 


 

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