poor swan poem

swan in a bath of molten lava
at least i laugh
i laugh, at least
swan in a shower of singing rain

swan in a bath of molten lava
her babies fell down from the sky
the sky threw her babies on out
swan sang in her new tub of glass

swan on a brand new singing t.v. show
her scores come back three, three, six
the six came from her mama
swan in a bath of molten lava



bitterness, pt. 2

it was dirty after i got done.
there were four little gray and black squares
all from where i pried photos from the wall

one, taken at a gas station, with the analog meters,
you got from your girlfriend
when she flew to italy to redeem a gift card
after a telephone scam ripped her off

second, it was me
laid out naked under three Japanese maples
black and white you said was tasteful
but i looked like a burnt cheeseburger

third was a collage
of “your first dollars”
i told you that you only save the very first one, not those after
you never listened to me when you’d shrug and i’d call you a tool

probably empty;
i forgot this one, too. but
it probably involved graphic depictions of violence
(it was just another picture of your girlfriend smiling)




i will be by myself in the snow

when you live in north carolina
you are predisposed to hay fever
you sunburn to hell
you cut the brakes on a pastor’s vehicle.

built to last on old glaciered hills,
one hundred percent stone and ash homes
to start your tobacco garden
or grow unsatisfactory green tomatoes.

gracious tombs, and a pentecost
at every corner.
television squares and fireplaces to
look-in, look-in.








c phillips is a self-publishing zinester and student from raleigh, nc.
they tweet @angelbyshaggy and sell out at