2 Poems for Lou Reed by Robert Frede Kenter : Variance (2 parts)



Thinking of Lou Reed. and New York City

that was and is /now gone…gone….so
still …the fragile shards of some unreasonable flower from half empty pockets torn from old coats ….entwines and blooms so there still this vibrant pulse ….the fleeting skein of some dense architectonic memory….always leaving, yet inside the vein beneath my skin and at twilight you are still there too and leave a card beside the wall on a scattered table….the pulse, the pulse….that I think is….though also ….gone….


For Lou Reed (1978)

fragile unreasonable flower
old full-length black autumn coat with pockets
dogeared post card against a wall
drifts from a scattered table
books letters notebooks
bloom inside the entwined half-full
shards inside this midtown Manhattan
SRO hotel

In the cold
In the cold vibrant twilight
In the cold vibrant
In the twilight
In cold twilight

5 poems inspired by Leonard Cohen by Robert Frede Kenter (Before I Turn Into Gold Day)

Poem for a Russian Grandmother in Exile by Robert Frede Kenter w/ A Painting by Moira J. Saucer

4 poems from Robert Frede Kenter in Avalanches in Poetry

An Interview with Robert Frede Kenter of Icefloe Press

4 poems by Robert Frede Kenter published in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

Wolfpack Contributor: Robert Frede Kenter

Robert Frede Kenter is a 2020 pushcart nominee, poet, visual artist, editor and the publisher of Ice FloePress.  Currently living in Toronto, work is published widely, incl. Floodlight Editions, Cypress, Burning House Press, AnthropoceneNew QuarterlyGrainPrairie FireGoing Down SwingingFascist PantiesCoughFevers OfThe hybrid, Audacity of Form (2019), is available from Ice Floe Press. Check out Robert’s latest book “Eden” with Floodlight Editions.

Eden is a selection of hybrid pareidolia poetry which glides within abstract visions. Robert Frede Kenter’s mirrored shards dangle inside sensory gardens. Smoke encircles words communicating raw politics and myth through jazzy vibrations twinkling in the shadows. Kenter’s poetry contorts paint, collage, drawn figures, photos, and found text. This imaginative collection, along with his other works and collaborations spanning more than three decades, solidify his place in the experimental poetry scene.

— Margaret Viboolsittiseri


Warhol/Factory Series: Girls of the Years by Willow Croft

Girls of the Years

I was you,
a hippie friend said,
just like you, when I danced.
I didn’t believe it, until
she dressed me up in Edie clothes.
And I saw me, through Superstar eyes
We sparkled in the same way
We looked lost in the same way
We’d said Ciao to everything we’d ever known,
everything that had ensnared us,
but it still wasn’t enough, and so I
didn’t want to believe
(no such thing as reincarnation, I said)
but really because
I’ve dreamt of her through a million pasts,
seen her in a thousand mirror ghosts,
saw she knew me
Inside and out and very far
From the world’s stage
From the critics,
the ocean hid us away, where
we dreamt in unicorns
star-wished above the clouds
danced like kindred spirits under full moons
Barefoot and wild and free and holding
a million futures in our hands,
always and forever sisters, best friends, daisy chain girls full of love
for this imaginary world; for ourselves.
For only ourselves, next time.

More on Willow Croft: Willow’s speculative fiction/horror has been published in a number of anthologies and journals. Find out more on Willow’s website https://willowcroft.blog



Warhol/Factory Series: Joe Kidd: Warhol in Fact

Warhol in Fact

There was a cloud atop a mountain
Raining colors upon the planet below
From that soil grew in motion, the children
The law did not speak to those above it
Into and out of the city of silver and gold
There were testimonials
There were artifacts
There was food for the aliens in their uniforms
In circles they drew stares, formations, and lines
This delicate air was a destination and home
Where it was assembled, where it hung on the wall
Some were there, some saw it all
The kisses, the brushes, the fabric, the film
That whispered and shouted "let love rule this world"
To be touched with a finger what invitation
To sleep on the floor of this house of creation

Poem by Joe Kidd for “Before I Turn Into Gold Day” inspired by Leonard Cohen

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Joe Kidd

Warhol and Factory Inspired Series: Poem by J.D. Casey IV : Every Time I Eat Campbell’s Soup

man in brown jacket walking on green grass field during daytime

photo by Mikhail/luxstn (unsplash)

Every Time I Eat Campbell’s Soup

andy, andy, where have you been
there's a war in the hall
of hell on earth

i used your golden telephone
to alert our lonesome god

the call
could not be completed
as dialed

it got disconnected
when you left the scene

i think it was the first time
when the bullets hit their mark
but failed to put you down for good

you only died a little and
you dug the corset anyway

andy, andy, do come back home
tell god we need you here
i can't get him
on the line

soulnap basquiat
while you're at it

Bio: James D. Casey IV is an artist, award-winning poet, author of seven poetry collections, and founder/editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press. His work has been published in print and online by several small press venues and literary magazines internationally.

La Voce dei Poeti, La Catena della Pace international poetry contest gave "Warriors of the Rainbow" by J.D.C.IV a critic's choice award in 2016, and his poem "That'll do Pig" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by New Pop Lit in 2019.

James was born in Colorado, grew up in Louisiana/Mississippi, and currently resides in Illinois.  

Founder/Editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with J.D. Casey IV from Cajun Mutt Press

EIC: David L O’Nan is the Saturday Feature on Cajun Mutt Press with old storytelling poetry


Poetry Showcase from Elizabeth Cusack

written for a friend and muse, Cyrinda Foxe (R.I.P.) whom was featured in one of Andy Warhol’s films “Bad”, in Bowie’s video for “Jean Jeanie”, was David Johansen’s girl during the New York Dolls, and Steven Tyler’s bride. She was a blaze of glory.

Cyrinda in the Factory

She never surrendered
To Andy Warhol’s gun
Though she was bad
She never really married 
She only wore blue jeans
And fucked off all the punks
For reasons left unseen
And sent them back
To streets where she belonged.

Here’s to the bright young lads
Who admired her pratfalls
The goddess remains
And to her memory
I raise a glass and song
And may her daughters do the same
When they remembers her at all
She was so bright and fell so far
Like an Edie Sedgwick doll
Though Andy tried to sell her off
She strode across the avalanche
Of cocaine bars and brawls
She knew too much 
To really care at all
For no man nor his lies
She got that from her ma
She understood
The inevitability of it all

Her songs live in the avalanche
They come to haunt us all
For there is nothing but the blues
The invincibility of it all
Her blonde ambition went so far
She lived for music after all
What did her daughters learn
The inevitability of it all
Though now they turn to worship 
Royalties as the dead men call.


I cannot believe
How wasted I am
It’s good even for me
I don’t even enjoy it
Bad wine is a poison
I suggest you refrain
I’m done and it’s Noon
So give me a token
I know all the rhymes
To say I’m broken
And now I am going to bed
I’ll teach the masses to stare
I’ve got a pill box hat
So throw me a dime
I guess I’m no beauty for sleeping
For wearing new silk underwear
There’s always a crypt somewhere leaking
Another girl in despair
There’s always a blow job awaiting
A boy in clean tight underwear
Here’s to the daughters of victims
Of the hate that has no name
They have the power
They grimace
And give birth to love again
Cold comfort is all they are given
So they give their tails a wag.


Give me a man worth
The price of submission
He is worth more than
The price of admission
I will cherish him more
I get off on the juice
I am so high 
A third dose
Makes me want to survive
I drank the poison
Do you think you can
I did not mean to call 
My V-8 was so loud 
Almost two weeks of baking
In the Mexican sun
Hot tubs under stars
And a night on the town
Is all I have to offer
In Joshua town
I’m happy to be anywhere
The nonstop date palms
Love it here
A Margarita under the moon
And a booster shot too
I may live on a plantation
I do not care
A collision of forces
Brought me here
That is why they love me 
It is my hometown
There are no castles burning 
The masters are too slow
I wish we could 
Puncture them a hole.


I remember your bravery
When we began
You lead me out roughly
And held my hand
You never once hurt me
Or damaged my dress
You did not twist my arm
Or call me a mess
Say you won’t leave me
I’ve nothing to do
But tap on my phone
And say I love you
So, throw me a bone
I’ll bury it deep 
Or dig it up slowly
Whenever I drink
I’ll promise to end
All of my fears
I won’t gag your mouth
I’ll swallow your tears
You’ll call me a mouse
It is no surprise
I want to thank you 
For the disguise.


Grow old 
Everything riddles again
Never share your life with a stranger
You won’t like the danger
And this is the best breakfast
I’ve ever had.

I’m alone and 
Life is getting better
There are plums from Rome
Chocolates from the Andes
I’m alone and I’m
Drinking brandy.

A day in this town 
Is a day for the locusts
Someone just posted “Bright Blessings”
Did I forget to focus?

Are we not alone
Did we discover the way
I will doom scroll 
And find that GIF 
Or make them pay.

Is my muse alive on this phone
Is the leopard resting on her thigh
I have no tears left
I’ve forgotten the rest
But I never compromise. 


Pretty wasted
For this hour of the morn
Then I remember the reasons why
Not all of them bad
Not all of them sad
I sound a little country
But I might be jazz
I’ve slowed way down
I soared real high
To the top of the candy mountain
Where I died.

I’m dancing with Hank Williams
On the telephone
We’re baked in the morning
We’re fried at night
Drying out’s for the oven
I’m with Hank all night
She’s just so heavy
On my telephone
From the top to the bottom
I’ll be alone
From the top to the bottom
I’ll die alone.

The Bell Won't Buzz

The bell won’t buzz
The toll won’t chime
The phone will fade to gray
I’ll lose my mind
I’ll dial it down
I will no longer pay
The time will say
Go and find a way
Your muse is talking now
She won’t shut down
And then one day 
She’ll run you out of town
I have my dharma
I have my fate
The play is plotted
And it’s too late
I want to love 
Into the night
I want to kiss 
And never fight
I want to go 
To Dublin now
I want to go 
And wear a crown
And write some songs
And there’s a chance
That London will remain.

Nothing to Declare

I have nothing to declare but my genius
My ink pen exploded midair
I have nothing to disclose
But my heart is a rose
I choose the highway with care

I brought nothing but velvet
And silk underwear
And a few other things I could spare
I bought nothing but prosecco
Espressos and concertos
And that is all I have to declare.

Sad Ballad

Do you remember how you were last night?
You came to the bar and started singing
You dug your claws into my arm
The band began a playing.

Do you remember where we were last night?
Was it a dream, were we alright?
I remember you last night
You entered the room and started weeping.

We drew our baths and started singing
I kissed your lips
You started thinking
You made a joke
I wasn’t thinking
I threw you around
We started weeping.

Do you remember anything we said?
Do you recall my words in your head?
I wanted to dance
I wanted your hand
We ended that night 
Not how it began.

The River is Wide

The river is wide
The ocean is far
Do you know how
Absolutely beautiful you are
No more tests
My heart is a mess
No more looking at the stars
No more wondering where you are
No more me and
No more you
Hello darkness
I love you
No matter what
No matter why
Just ask then look into my eyes
The reflection you see is you
You hold my heart
Inside your hand
I know you understand.

We Are not Six

I need time to decide
If I live or die
I look to discover
The reasons why.

Sources tell me that
Something’s wrong with me.

I’m not easy when I 
Drink my tea
I ask questions
And I look real mean
I get angry if people talk to me
I’m not easy constantly.

I forget to cross both T’s
I walk off sets
And hit the streets
That’s something you should 
Know about me.

I’m sad alone
And I’m sad in town
One day you’ll see me
Breaking down
When it happens
I’ll say it’s me again
One day you’ll see me
Round the bend.

I’m a graveyard girl
And it’s getting late
I fade to black 
Then I eat the cake.

Your Poems

Your poems
Are like monologues
I have an idea that
You are like Shakespeare
Let’s rewrite his lines
Let’s rewrite our fears
Lie in my arms
I will guard your path
And like a good muse
I will let you pass
I know about Jesus
We’ll rewrite the book
His infinite variety
We’ll try not to hook
With fingers and toes
We will stay on the path
To where he arose
And we’ll never look back.

A Thousand Cruelties

A thousand cruelties 
Is what to expect
A slow attrition
A sudden death
I hold on tightly
And take the ride
But a thousand omissions
Lead to one bad night.

They do not forgive
Imperfection somehow
They close you out slowly
They know how
They stand together and say
Get through it somehow
But really it is just
The same old ball
Lonely and empty and
Ready to fall.

I wanted the genius
I got what I deserved
I wanted the bridegroom
I wanted his curse
I gave my brother 
Another reprieve
I found myself
Another place to breathe.

Twitter @ecusack4
Youtube: PoetryonTheRocksforLonelyHearts

More Bob Dylan Inspired poems from Elizabeth Cusack (Poetry on the Rocks for Lonely Hearts)

Poetry by Elizabeth Cusack inspired by the Dirty Three

Poem by Elizabeth Cusack for Before I Turn Into Gold Day

Bio: Elizabeth Cusack is a recovering actress. Ever since playing Rhoda Penmark in “The Bad Seed” as a child, deservedly, she has endeavoured to keep up her end of the bargain. Elizabeth has been blessed with the best of teachers over the years, mostly from the school of hard knocks. She has championed and performed in fringe theatre in America. Elizabeth edits her favourite poet while not otherwise inspired by her muse to write. 

%d bloggers like this: