Paul Cunningham

Paul Cunningham (b. 1989) is the author of a chapbook of poems called GOAL/TENDER MEAT/TENDER (horse less press, 2015) and he is the translator of two chapbooks by Swedish author, playwright, and video artist Sara Tuss Efrik: Automanias: Selected Poems (winner of the 2015 Goodmorning Menagerie Chapbook-in-Translation Contest) and The Night’s Belly (Toad Press, Fall 2016). He is a contributing editor to Fanzine and his writing can be found in Dostoyevsky Wannabe’s Cassette 68, Fireflies, Bat City Review, LIT, Spork, DIAGRAM, and others. His poem-films have appeared inKastratet, the MAKE Magazine Lit & Luz Festival, Seattle’s INCA: The Institute for New Connotative Action, and the Museo Universitario del Chopo in Mexico City. He holds a M.F.A. from the University of Notre Dame.








the day the lake dried up marked the end of long
residual cataloging, the end of recording all my
waste night after night: this Hell of botched
spill factors, of tentaculate protozoa I sketch
the loss of my greenish emulsifier, I jot down
my drop-down menu, my starved swelling trap
failing: extractor fans failing: ridge vents
failing: my INT. walls are trifid, tariffed, triffid
I’ve outgrown my human, split from my midrib
I’m can-sealed
I’m swamp-rill
I’m landfilled
I’m dead-real
I’m God-stalled
I’m leaf galls
I’m fast-tracked, you’re so appalled
I’m the last drawl, last thing you saw
I’m suburban sprawl, a blood-soaked awl
I’m insectivorous, sanguineous,
anfractuous, antimonious
I’m the high polish, the dead air
Malleable, ductile
I’m the dead-last, the final graph
I’m numbers gashing, grinning
lash-batting, always
All to compel, I’m the hard sell
I’m too much, I’m the foretell
the jarred bell, I’m clinical
I’m cynic-real, I’m centripetal
I’m the pinnacle, I’m finished
I’m a makes no sense

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