Three Poems

By Devon Welsh






for mama


chemtrails made the sky a crossword
and the day was chillier than yesterday


I played the bongos at your grave
to say thanks for the music


imagining a child doing fortnite dances
in the new grass on the hole you lay in


I would have been that kid
if I had been born in 2008


too old to be an Obama baby
too childish to have a baby.


I’d heard they’d have the cure for cancer
by the time I got cancer


which could be true,
but not for you.


(this isn’t how he really died
he was cremated


in LA and it was hot outside
and I wasn’t even there)



◊ ◊ ◊





I knew a guy who dropped his pants onstage
while Ty Segall was strumming his guitar
I think this was in two-thousand and eight,
He tripped over the crotch and got a scar.
When he was three they said he was a Lama
Within the world of Halifax Shambhala.
The Buddhist nuns made him feel like a god.
I think that’s why he had so much to prove.
He moved to Montreal in two-thousand and twelve,
at one point said he really liked my band
and then when other people liked it too
he started threatening to beat me up.
A few years later he apologized,
He’d moved away down to New Mexico
To marry his old sweetheart that he’d met
When they were cutting wood in Colorado.
Their wedding was in Mexico somewhere.
He got a job repairing drums and horns,
Wrote drunken Facebook messages to me
about how maybe we could start a band.
He joined my fantasy basketball league.
His wife was pregnant still the day he died,
T-boned on the highway by a truck.
I cannot say I knew the guy so well,
But God if you are there be kind to David Sell.



◊ ◊ ◊





I’d like to die falling, grabbing onto air,
feeling the enclaspment
of my favourite underwear.


I’ve never pulled my penis
through the cock flap when I pee,
never crossed that fearsome threshold.


My friends are hooking up at peep shows,
they’re crawling through the goo
to suck a nameless lover in a box.


They’re all trying the dick pills.
Putting pencils in their pee holes for the pain.
I guess that’s just the way things are.


I’d like to die entombed, scratching at the roof,
hearing the breeze pushing on the lid
from the fading living world.


My friends are crushing testicles in vises.
I’ve never questioned God before.
I’ll never start.


Devon Welsh is a musician originally from Ontario and then Quebec, now living in Wisconsin.

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