Mat Laporte: Three Poems


All my poems come
shaped as birds after they died.
My friends, the heavy soft bargains,
yes you can. The confabulists,
identical with capital. Soupy
neckties in the noon-day punt.
Hairy magnate, I usually start
vomit-dropping. Funhouse
corporate tank. From the ravages
of steam-punk history, and its
beloved abundant promise.
Structurally a jerk. Your film about
great towers swaggering, only
to divulge, like your queried gate,
one blank unexpected sailboat,
as outside illuminates a huge
painting of handsome petals,
and a hand like yours. Clearly
there’s a dusk of  satisfaction
out there behind the door.



Daily body moisture
dangerously close to skeezing
Google head
more than awesome
chuck me into the steering wheel
a field of multiple
clawing at the gates
heavy signage, milennial slaps
chug the lighting
you who are also in this
delirious mess
black-outs occur
at every level
Bonny Hunt-esque
professional punks
summer snaps their own milk
boy and lyric
far from a window
drooling constructions
a bad history month
welling up inside the earth
loafing actions design
toggled up joy practice
big dumb hand slip-ons
nods up a clown
denoting its temperless huffs
and that’s old gross
shoved into he swigs
fresh vegetable mist
combed into back into
flames in the portable head
plus, everything is beans
slow n’ steady
dollar jams
thanks for the oldness
begging for social freeze
in the blinkety-blank
regions where I dwell
fall off me
in an instant
swerves of unexpectednes
a paradox
of casual drones
goal-oriented volunteers
and the power to provoke:
kitty vacations
such strange old patterns
in the endoscopy of our lives
blood red from chicken
and biscuits, arriving
like some critical truth
a banner year
for slump Canadianisms





Tonight is for closing myself in a drawer
with all the pencils pointing south
I once had a dry spell that lasted a mountain
tortillas n’ cheese
Substitute an omnibus
then go park your squirrel
in the casino bush
blasted with electric solitude
stately rhythms returned
we liked them the best
because they gave us somewhere to hang our hats
while we got down with it

This isn’t some unrhetorical universe
waves ferociously cross
the hard-won freedom of a yak
for fun’s sake it’s so dumb
all those alt. fantasies
arrest you. i-wielding, finally
nighttime arrivées of space
wish you were the best
all topiary bros and fat
such tennis elbows of delight
it was worth it
edging along that beautiful crisp
the death-shot in the hands of the sleeping man
deep in whose diagrammatic
mornings I have puked

distinguished particular
you-bridge across a smorgasbord
walking around like he beat
the rest of us at i-life
I need a face transplant
for all the glaze I ate
in the basement with my buddy Carl
who is also made of glaze
so you better believe, I ate Carl too


Mat Laporte is the author of two chapbooks: Demons and Billboards from Hell. Life Savings is coming up from Odourless Press. He lives in Toronto.