Poetry Showcase: Brian Hardie

photo from pixabay.com

First Person Bio: My name is Brian Hardie. I am an interdisciplinary artist and multi instrumentalist from Portland, Oregon. I have contributed works of photography, poetry and sound art to publications around the world including The Bitchin Kitsch, Blazevox, Decanto, Amulet, and Conceit Magazine, and have had work featured at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point and The Portland Art Museum. I have also traveled the country touring in punk bands and performing spoken word since the age of 17.


I’m strolling 
      about the city 
    deeper now at a calm… 
 inside the handsome 
sunglass  setting swung
 roses  like a blind planetarium 
       kindness  now            you will obtain   
    numb  syntax 
       expressive        to  wit   
     perhaps                   a breath 
          pencil it in 
   death was thrown last             evenin'
      frosted by a smile 
               with burden 
    creating the end/
       putrid breath from across 
      the room      who placed a bet 
 on only their weakness 
stands corrected 
        the mumbling blush 
embarrassment scoring.        
pointless  as.             
        they pile up 

Slamming Doors in Sober Living

Temples twitch where I itch 
         and bend, particularly on the grid.
      Fetching sleepy
 eaten swells rising out of the minimal gaze in the sky. A sweaty heart will palpitate to make great faces staring thrilled filling the cusps of wind trailing the swing of my minds dull hatchet blade

Note on The First Page

you are the wing, the clipping of flight, a walk down the edge of night, my black tar on aluminum won't corrupt enough insight. A description of the ruckus relinquished the head. a breeze tied to the bed. Found while grace was giving to need. You severed the limbs from within, bled onto the soft turf of the playground where the fog is slithering, bound to the slide where he slid and hid the kindling…

Lock Box

Empty night 
    Crowded room 
Severed human
               Done I am, soon
     What question soars
    Through the sea
              Through the sails
        Ripping in me 
       Wind pounds 
   When not approved
         My fearsome resetting
        Needs to breathe
             Spoken void 
Warped vision
    Thrown away
     Something whispers
      A soft demand 
    Collect the mess
    Stain the air
       Plunge the brink
  Never declare

Short Notice

The whistles are inferior

to the cohorts trillium disk.

Tides whistle at a bandits

Blood spurting slit wrists.

  rippling  contort

 statistic  wretch  

exfoliating dialect      

burnt shimmering  insect

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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