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Zach Trebino Poetry

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the parts v the hole

by Zach Trebino

 

i
rain
from
haunted
shelves,

wood
fingering
my
selves,

disciples
line up
to
gather
me
in
buckets,

my
damp
head
cradled
between
books
growing
out
their
fur
to
make
themselves
more appealing,

the disciples
make
sandwiches
and tea,
brush my teeth,
and train to see the
entirety
when all they’re looking at
are little bits of me.

 

 

stock market trends don’t necessarily predict
the rates of births and deaths

 

because of your disordered senses,
i’ve had to hide securities in luggage
for my own defenses, take your car
keys, and lock my knees for impact
all just so we can go play blackjack
at a dimly lit roadside motel against
marsupials wearing stethoscopes who
pick their teeth with the scraps of
snail shells while shooting up insulin
cause their mom used to call them
sugar babies but really it’s the same
old babies spewing absurdities from
their fontanels meanwhile the mother
says “hit me” and all hell’s bells are
wrung by arthritic alcoholic hands
begging for a euthanist, damned to
a trance, dancing through case
histories of infant incest like a stock
market analyst.

 

 

prophecy

 

i was thinking of
all the wombs i’ll never know
when i unfastened my
seatbelt, grabbed onto my
genitals, and drove right into
my future so hard i flew through
the windshield and found it on the pavement.

 

 

BIO

Zach Trebino populates the world with absurdly grotesque performances, videos, and texts. His performances have been seen in cities and truck stops throughout the US (and a few times in Bulgaria and Argentina). His friend Zack Bwaff (www.itsmezackbwaff.com) is a celebrity chef. His texts have appeared on stages in some places, on pages in some others, and a few times on both at the same time.

 

 

 

 

 

The Writing Disorder is a quarterly literary journal. We publish exceptional new works of fiction, poetry, nonfiction and art. We also feature interviews with writers and artists, as well as reviews.

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