Sold the Boppy.
The stupid, it hurts.
You are right to rebel.
Yeah, feel my cock on your boob.
Freakier sex means better lives.
A single tear rolled down his smooth cheek.
Nothing is less personal than the face.
This brings us to the nub of the issue.
Hugging a shitbag is like frosting a cupcake.
A shadow fell across the table, blocking the sun.
Overheat, cool down with a dousing, and repeat to fade.
ATM machine tired and stay home.
I feel trapped inside my face.
This is very often the case.
People go away around here.
Note on the Text
These 555 sonnets are made with found lines and precise measures, a database and text analytic software. I crunched Shakespeare’s sonnets for word, syllable and character averages, and these are my new measures. The lines’ oddities are their own, the arrangement is mine. After the text analytics and data entry, many ways of assembling are found. I hold to the turn (when I think of it) and that sonnets are poems of a certain size, but little more. Something in excess of the lines passes through, it’s that I’m chasing.
John Lowther’s work appears in the anthologies The Lattice Inside (UNO Press, 2012) and Another South: Experimental Writing in the South (University of Alabama Press, 2003), and Stone, River, Sky: An Anthology of Georgia Poems (Negative Capability Press, 2015). Held to the Letter, co-authored with Dana Lisa Young, is forthcoming from Lavender Ink. His website: http://lowtherpoet.wordpress.com.