Gabe Durham


Nepotism is where I get things                
because my blood earned them.
God I'm so sick of shrimp cocktail.
It's the fault of the poor.
Are you sure Flesh Dad
said nothing about me
before joining the Singularity?
No matter. Now is the time to show
photos of my exquisite guns
to senators who mustn't cross me.
What's that metallic smell?
Of all the people doing exciting work,
it's the New Phrenologists
who have my attention.
Every moment I don't
burn this gallery to the ground
is a gift to these automatons.
Poor doomed Mom
over there laughing,
still hot at eighty,
never to receive
her sweatpant retirement.
I get things because
of exquisite guns and senators
and shrimp and seriously
what's that smell.
Pardon me. Across the room is
an ancient war mask I must don
and await further instructions.




This is from a book I'm working on that I'm currently calling The Beast on my Sleeve, a very low-concept collection: It's springtime in Los Angeles and the city churns with anxiety. As for this poem, I bet I was looking for a container for all my feelings about a certain kind of very rich person.