Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (NSFW—Issue 45, September 2014)

Feng Sun Chen
5 poems


Now that my love has turned around and I can see his evil face

I have thrown up dogs and cats representing sorrow.

When I pick up a book and open it, it is dead.

I cannot feel when I read the interior design

of the refined soul

and even the ugly poem is refined.

Oliver, what can you do for me as a gingery dream,

the sweetest of white boys

can conspire with me and my triangulated support

of their violent home improvement.

There is nothing you can do for me.

I can no longer write from the soul

because this is my soul now,

the landscape is fertile and I am in exile.

United garbage of the world,

what can I do for me and what can I do for you,

how do I know the beauty of the world,

how can I show yourselves

when you are trapped inside a grand maison?

What can I stand?

I stand for the ones who are lying down I stand

for my asexual thunder

the instant stream

stops time and halts the black gauze carriage.

Is it different when you step in?

The instant cannot flow

The center cannot hold

Soft butcher soft femme soft devotional butcher

soft pain soft radish soft radical sex water

When I take you in the water is frozen but we fall throughout.

You are a downtrodden rainbow of abuses and mistakes

and the most gorgeous of reflectors.

Baby toaster, sparks flying, your body sputters

set fire to my hair and clothes

slowly the mechanics break.

Everybody has a heart but I do not

I have an academic wound and a hungry soul

I have a stomach that touches

envelops your rusty pink box

you are a coughing divinity wrapped in hydrochloric acid

my coughing heart

I fill in the cracks.

Power surges.


I came into this world to love you but I was born

without the organ of love.

During lovemaking there is a funny stuttering noise in the hole

and you realize that holography is the absent response

and every hyperglorified technological advance is a congenital failure.


The gullet politesse of have a nice text

compounded digital sweetness of fingers in the hole

and their ancient war drum

white space around the black key notes strum strums

Mary will accept the obliterative.

Mary will accept the sweet cold nodes of the cables.

Operator operator

The holes in your text seem to signify some kind of terror

which I see as the backside of erasure

if you should ask what the other

side of an eraser is:

When I am a pale man I drag my luggage in a suit

and its coarse hairs fluctuate

in the air conditioned wasteland of future ruin.

Dear reader,

Ghosts are more powerful than fathers because they are pure surface,

layers upon hysteric layers of surface.

The ambiance of your dying skin besieges me. With such illiteracy

I hope to reach the dead within you.


the screen is more skin where skin folds

if gravity inside has pulled / puckered growth

Isabella showed me how primates sex it without thumbs preen

you put your superglow in me

the virus breaks in kubla khan

a stately pleasure doesn’t slit the slit

inside you are planets like panic on epic time

and I am the hexagonal earthsuckling ring


Fee demands a reading

the fluid cannot go above the line that means you are a beast.

Jesus came back a soft monkey,

Did u have sex with him Mary? Did Mary come out of your hole?

Did mary dry up with the cotton to make the shape of sanity?

Test my entity, my hand is clammy with old butter

that is spread across the weak. I see Mary high up.

She is glowing with many linen lips. She falls down to us.

Large appendages touch her, Mary

coming to swallow the beaten figures within us.