TASTE MY GAME: a poetry collection — Preamble-ramble/Intro.

First thing’s first: Here are 10 (ten) finished poems from a collection I’ve just finally rendered enough to end.  Concision, as a concept when writing, is vital, and you must make it the first priority before publication — so here, I’ve done my best.  Mostly everything from this collection is derived from many individual poems I’ve written over the past two years.  Lots of fine-tuning and reinvention went into these pieces & made them what they are right now.  I am excited to share from this collection in particular.  This collection is titled “TASTE MY GAME — a poetry collection — City Boy is Dead” — which is somewhat of an end/death to my previous poems called “City Boys” which thematically explore the nightlife of several Midwest cities I’ve experienced crazy nights in (Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, Minneapolis.)

Settings are not specified, the tone is amoral, settings interchangeable.  Key elements to these pieces include postmodernism, masculinity, casual sex, homo-eroticism, and apathy/passivity conveyed during the tender twenties.  Confessional mode/freestyle is the easiest categorization for my style  — I don’t follow any strict regimen for writing these.  My style of writing is very much influenced by musings of my favorite writers: Bret Easton Ellis, Kim Addonizio, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and Federico Garcia Lorca.  The lyrics of Fiona Apple inspire me to write altogether — nothing else influences me creatively as she does — she is my favorite artist.
All of my material on here is Copyright ©2012 Samuel Swayne.  My work is vulnerable on this site, I know, but please do not re-blog or reiterate these poems in any way without contacting me first. 

the city boy was found dead last night, right after the club closed.
But, we do have good news – there’s significant evidence
that he put up a good, clean fight.
he’s still in his party clothes & faintly reeks of cologne
and whiskey sours.
Yes, we checked; wallet and keys intact.
We’ve assessed that he was likely en route
to a kind of sexual odyssey with boys in black underwear
all of whom were known as good kissers —
just what city boy was always known for.

Leave him to rest in peace, but let me warn you –
he’ll prove you dead wrong &
Resurrect – drunk as hell but still good as new – for just one more night.

We’ve all agreed – on his gravestone we’ll write:
“leave me here so’s I can surrender to my godforsaken
apathy which worthlessness caught me, quickly, and
with my last threads of romance I tried to win over its struggle
in a battle I didn’t battle, but instead, lost — in a good, clean fight –
I want nothing more than to be left for dead under the
blinking red lights and nearby noises in my beloved city night.”

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