Thursday, June 4, 2009

Featured Poet: Alfonso Colasuonno

Alfonso is a friend who has read at OSFR I and has some new poems he'd like to share. Please enjoy!

QUICK PLUG: While I am on the subject of enjoyment, I recommend suckas who gots to know check out Juliet Cook's 13 Myna Birds. Really interesting design and format of rotating poems; many imagistic, expository, and confessional...all really damn good.

Alfonso Colasuonno is a 25 year old writer based out of Brooklyn, New York. He is a former New York City secondary school teacher. He graduated Beloit College with a BA in Creative Writing. This is his second submission to O Sweet Flowery Roses and has also been a performer at an O Sweet Flowery Roses-sponsored event.


Regarding your “poetry” -

It is not complex enough

Nor is it obscure enough

To catch even a faint glimpse of my eye.

The beauty of poetry

Is that it leaves the proletariat

Completely baffled as to what you mean.

Your writing is as obvious

As the cumshot

At the end of a porno.

You hit people over the head

With your arcing stream of ideas.

That is not poetry.

Maybe it is spoken word.

It doesn't have the staccato

The rhythm

The je ne sais quoi

Of poetry.

I have never heard

Something as complementary of my work.

No, this is not poetry

That you learn in classrooms

Or from going to readings

And it never aimed to be.

A visceral reaction

A laugh

A cringe

A masturbation break

This is what I aim for

Not bored applause

Like you aim for.


I live a life of multiplicities

Responsible for the future of this country

A New York City schoolteacher.

Gutterpunk? (On weekends?)

My preferred mode of dress is a ratty t-shirt

With a picture of Exene Cervenka

And a pair of jeans with holes at the kneecaps

And Eurotrash written in black marker on the pant leg

Like a wrestler's iconography on his tights

Signaling to all parties

A false delusion.

Yet, still, I wear the suit and tie

Monday through Friday

8 to 4

I suck Joel Klein’s cock.

I do it by the book.

How do I react inside those four walls? Student comes in blazed

Out of his mind.

Reminds me of someone quite familiar

And how false it is to say - “get yourself together” When having a few drinks later in the day

Crack up at the thought.

I think back to same student and wonder:

Am I really getting that old and yawn-mouthed

That a student needs to show up high to enjoy my class? And then I realize he is not enjoying my class at all

But the company of his comrade in the next seat.

Question: Did I ever do that? No. I stifled my laughter.

I respected my teachers.

I tell myself these lies

Until they become truths.

Am I doing a good job?

Can I say what I want to say? No!

The trick to education is knowing one golden rule

Your teachers are full of shit.

A trip to the principal’s office

And a great big unsatisfactory on my teaching record.

I’ve lost control:



Severance pay

Big fat j

On the dole

Back to bumming

Reading Bukowski

Drinking heavily

In short, a rubber room existence. There is no such thing as fate.

American Spirit

You have a high pitched voice

An anxious tremor

Resonating to the stratosphere

As if your lungs were never consumed with internal clouds of mist

Sucked in like steamboats in vile vortices

Smoke from a thousand fags

Ashes staining your fingernails yellow

Disguised under press-on nails

And teeth off white

Remedied by Crest white strips

And brushing at least three times a day

In painstaking circular motion

And time permitting, vertically and horizontally, as well.

But you still have a smoker's cough

And your perfume doesn't hide

The smell of countless nicotine cravings.