The Great Poetry Project

August 8, 2008

Here it is, the good, the bad and the ugly of my poetical effusions. I’ve posted more than 100 of my poems so that all can peer into my soul, as it were, the wistful, the funny and the dark and the dank. Almost all of this stuff dates from 2001 when I was a member of a poetry reading group. Some of it is embarrassing, some of it quite skillful if I may say so. Some of it is almost there with a little work, some are unfinished. A least a couple of them I’m quite proud of. Anyway, for the edification, boredom or brickbat throwing of all the world, Evan Gilling’s Poetical Works [an ongoing project], in no particular order, here at Gravybread on WordPress.
REMEMBER to scroll through “previous entries” at the bottom of each page to access them all.

Just to give a flavor, here is one of my better ones:



We walked gingerly
through fetuses
of the American Dream;

through skeletons
erections coming
into being

we poked around
in places
soon to be the spaces
of strangers

we didn’t belong,
as we glided
through wall frames,
grazed wires

we probed the guts
of blueprints,
secret plans
and dreams

bundles of seams
where electricity
and blood
would pulse

warm cases
for the breathing
to sleep and grow

row after row
of identical
unfinished creations

secluded havens,
neatly arranged
in crowded isolation

the same
American Dreams


c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


walk into blueness

February 29, 2008

Walk into blueness,
Sacrifice solidness

Seek solace in mist,
Kiss blackness

Soar on stone
Shout silence


c. 2008 Evan Gilling


January 11, 2008


the gun point
plumb blunt

stops cold
on skulls,


brains stumped,
legs stuck,
eyeballs pulled into
the hole bolt

run, bolt

the punk thumb,
rubs barrels, nubs

pumps fear,
feeds the blood,
mind stunted
junk diet,

bloodlust boiling
crushing the handle
cocking metal

to pump, pummel
and fuck heads

to get off
on a hardcore
bullet cum explosion


c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


January 3, 2008

the silver service she bought
should nerve-wrack insurers
all the bric-a-brac secured
behind lasers under glass
and she’s spastic
about their placement
in case miss manners
should notice, taking notes
rote down about where
they go by the napkins,
and the animals
wrapped in napkins
snort and sniff
and slap down their truffles,
their ruffles and frills
adorning their fat,
their curly cue tails secured
in their panties, and panting
for more and their forks
adorned with fat
as the smorgasbord
on silver platters
reaches critical mass
and stuffed until
they’re roughly obscene
belching and ready
to toast the queen of the ball
for her tasteful settings
then letting farts in stalls
we’re all gonna smell
on Monday,
when the setting is cleared
and the linen is cleaned
and the platters are glassed
coveted and held
before the mass and blessed
secured and fast,
and passed like the grail
before the rabble.


c.2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


January 3, 2008

in their minds
by the din
of their deceits
and lies,
they walk
discreetly absolved
and sinless

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

i should have licked the venom (unfinished)

January 2, 2008

I should have licked the venom from the ink on the paper
and felt the spittle and the sweat in the words
tasted the acrid bitter grounds in the dark oil
breathed the fermented methane decay
you siphoned from the well,

I should have tasted the last fire from your tongue
heard the final hisses and caught the spray of spit;
even hatred is obliged these considerations,

but you raised a cheap Bic
and lit the pages with nitro
and stood back far away
as far from the blast as you could

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

fragrance of dust

January 2, 2008

Plastic flower leaves stay green
roots of shafts in styrofoam
self sustaining, never changing
never needing rearranging
no watering, no wilting
no color shifting
no hassles no demands
sitting still unnnoticed
with a plaque and stand

Eying the calendar
for days on end
Sometimes I remember
to blow the dust
from the leaves and stems

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


January 1, 2008

What the shit,
let’s get it and cut some rug, Gate!
I want music and words,
not bellyshirted teens
who can’t sing a lick,
airbrushed Lolitas extruded
from machines;
What the fuck kind of spinner is this
that don’t got no Begin the Beguine?
I want growling groaning saxes
moaning moon songs;
sounds that soar
from open sewers and sores;
the sighs of spurned suitors nursing wounds,
the riffs and trills of suicidal curses;
I wanna hear the saliva and grit
from the bottom of a bottle of Night Train;
I want the blues of a mug
chugged down to the foam;
of the last damn penny
in the pocket;
the sound of talkin’ and knockin down trash
on the long walk home

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


February 5, 2007

Clutching my pass;
the forbidden corridor stretches;
it’s quiet at dead center, at midday;
the building is clean; each day it gleams
in another buffed layer of wax; yet
a dull green din darkens
the cavernous shaft
sun rays somehow sneak into
the vastness and bounce among
the tiled hard surfaces;
lockers pass in dull repetition
like backgrounds in a cheap cartoon;
a thousand blank slates sit in
cubbyhole portals off to the sides;
uniform buzzes hermetically sealed
in the honeycomb hives hidden
from the forbidden corridor;
Still, no sign of life in the middle
of the hall; flapping flared cuffs
and unbroken Chuck Taylors slapping
and squeaking on a shimmering
hard sea; wavy lights dance
in the floor’s imperfections;
Stop, and they stop, and all is still
vast and quiet, still slightly dark
at midday;
Move, and they move again;
wavy undulating light glazes
shine in shadow ripples in all directions;
The hall goes on to its ends; up steps
the repetition begins again; passages unending
fan away again, in the same dull luster;
a place of sameness gleams its clean
surface smiles where roll calls
of the nameless are repeated; and passages
of sameness are named to the faceless
again and again;
soon a drone will grow and this quiet zone
will fill with noise,
and the place will be quiet again
and the buffing will come, when
dirt is snuffed out; and sounds become
a sterile muffle;
And it’s quiet and dark in the hall,


c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling


February 5, 2007

the slimy moss-covered walls of my insides
are coated and caked in musty orange sin,
and this germy shit-filled Ganges water
will paint my outsides shiny,
awash in a halo glow in lazy red sunlight
cast through the crumbling temples on shore,
and I will be renewed, if I believe,
by this blessed cesspool eddy,
relieved as I turn to face the pilgrims,
sheathed in a drying film

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling