five poems

by Samantha Hund

Lawn Chair

60 degrees in March

lawn chair & mud

Raybans & a fresh bowl

muck boots & slutty shorts

I’m a poet. it’s fine.

I brought a laptop.

Freight Elevator

my professor said: enjoy it now

this is the first & last time 

any of you will make art

for the sake of Art

online lit tho

I think I came in

by the freight elevator

cause I heard someone had weed

opened the door and saw

This 

is where they’ve been hiding

Bohemia

all along

fuck

The Boss’ Husband

mostly when I think of him

I think

God, get off her already

my Boss is swollen ripe

more often than not

her fertile waddle vulgar

it’s a real sideshow,

the three-stroller circus

meanwhile,

he’s strutting around the hen house

playing vicarious ownership

cock-sure and

licking his chops.

we worry it’s catching

we wait for him to leave.

Porn

reading poetry in the dark

sweaty & shameful

like your brother’s magazines

it’s between me & God

& Father John Misty

are poets not vampires

who prey on sleepers at night?

filching dreams & sugar & better days

to spin them into

shiny stanzas on smartphones

for dilettante praise.

Metaphorically

I only fuck metaphorically

if you look at it

sober-eyed and sweat-free

it becomes hysterical

like a word repeated until

it’s just thick mouth noise

and syllables

the funny doggy rut of

meat and skin and breath

-  pathetic

I need it spun into a fever

a secret

a car wreck

strike me senseless

or at least

let me laugh.

by Samantha Hund

BIO: Samantha Hund writes unsettling fiction, and poetry with teeth. Her work appears in Expat Press, Crowstep Journal, and Bottlecap Press. All rumors of vampirism are unsubstantiated. Find her at www.samanthahund.com and @sm_hund on twitter and instagram.