The Poetry of Brian Hardie

Mel BrakE Press is honored to publish the poetry of Brian Hardie.

Brian Hardie Bio:

I am 25 years old and I have been writing passionately since the age of seven. I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. I now reside in southeast Portland. I have been published in over 50 small press journals/E-zines including The Pebble Lake Review(Houston, TX), Conceit Magazine(San Fransisco, CA), AMULET, Hudson View(NYC/South Africa), Decanto(UK), Ditchpoetry.com(Canada), SALiT Magazine(International), DaveJarecki.com, WordSlaw.com, CynicMagazineOnline.com, VAZ!NE, Down In The Dirt Magazine, Expressions Online Literary Journal, Theinquisitionpoetry.com(Nevada), Lone Stars Magazine, Pure Francis, BLAZE VOX, and Angel Exhaust(UK). I read annually at the 3 day Unregulated Word Poetry Festival in Kansas City alongside S.A. Griffin, and Scott Wannberg, among others. I will be starting a year long study with poet Mathew Dickman at the Independent Publishing Resource Center in September. I have been a musician for 16 years, recorded and released 4 records, one noise/spoken word album, and tour the States playing music. You can listen to my band Fair Stand The Fields Of France at http://www.myspace.com/farestandthefieldsoffrance. My favorite color is red, I guess.

The Poetry of Brian Hardie


BRAINS IN ALABAMA

ya know, provided I dont say something I would be safe from all stumptown eyes blinking twice, rather to leave it soft sizzling in a skillet amongst summer sex I will not have hence to where I will be longing. The crunch of buttered bread burnt to our crisp retrosexual romances, sliding poison lips down the curves of our lazy libidos, forgetting the transfer to walk back through the freedom captive in a capsule in a bottle on my dusted bedroom floor. Breathe, you.

cause you let the blahs set the groove as a mind stain, you will catch those tears in rain buckets while you bob with hands tied trying to remedy the riddle of the rotten apple brooding at the bottom. your last cigarette will burn with numb forgiveness, your withdrawal of substance will shake you sick in an unwelcome home, guilt will set the stage with barrels of booze, fear will be invoked in the thorns of our devils.


WEST COAST ROCK TOURS

at the existent withhold, drowning
Columbia carp, smiling in memory in
smelly high school scent, and withhold,
to leave it and me a sake taken to leave alone,
gypsy love lost on the mind flowing a rapid
end to a long fight not won.

exhausted interviews seen to the channels
thought to provide a comfort, not even
on the edge, forgotten in the ring of
a text message vibration. Scandalous
strings strum covers of cliche sounds
heard so often. My machine gun trigger
invites me to blast happy tension into the
eyes and ears for conventional speakers to
later mention when addressing a non-pleased
audience, attending only for the will to
be seen in the eyes of any name announced.

Back to the triggers... no, never mind. I am
done now with you here. The only
reason I continue aloof is because it feels
good to do so with this one pen I found. The
art gods to be fooled not, I am not
bowing down to any of your cunt blood
feet. My scribbles look of a font anorexic.

A little matter for observation
to keep the sun from rising today. There
are more worthless awakenings in my
internet screen than a
more reflected truth in a mirror shattering
before eyes, complete.


WINK, WINK

gravestones- what a great job you do building up before i,
so vow before i lose it that you will be waiting. i lie in bed after i

over forwards in regret for weeks on end, oh well...an exaggeration to that long enough plead to see my dead grandfathers eyes frowning down upon. left my bike in the tunnels where

suppose the lover i shared it with shares
the


of me with the ghosts of old town. where did i miss my
chance given conditionally? i feel i need to hault and suffer again, this
time not to leave others feeling so


guilty, or even holding thoughts that i point the finger. i
see i have damaged my own doing, forgot somewhere that

me eternally. i need the world to forget me and forgive what they

grandma snag me
up
and bring me
up
above with you



CURVES OF A SERPENT



I carried you through like a trophy

Amongst southeast strips of scenic eyes,

Smelling flowers before standing delivered,

Possibly their smell could be of thought

Gone rotten, breasts all to me like

Goddesses of night, the hidden voice

Of pleasure speaking in the night,

In sheets soiled with tears, pillows

Penetrated for lusting ghosts, drinking

The water boiled to sanitize, sore pelvises

Thrusting to cum pain struck and more, to wit

On subject matter blurred by beginners luck,

Transforming my limbs into arms stroking the

Curves of a serpent, alluring hair I stroke, barbed wire

Fences surrounding her wall. Sidewalks talk of

Degrees increased with yards burning away, out

To the river flushing excrement exceeding decay, like

Memory clutches that weaken the present mind,

A different position for every episode

My future promises, an activity risen on ashtray

Dwellings, beaches of no sand or ocean, needles with

No prick, love without the L, the trots of no-legged

Fragile men. What varies is that scent descent

Into aroma therapy, nostalgic oils of

Innocent eyes, narcissistic neck stained

By an angels perfume.