Candid Poetry About Real People


Your death is louder.

All hail the helling of bells, barrage of spinsterSpiking coffee with morphine, and no oneCan hear it—your death is louder—like lozenge,Louder like bullshit-banter-baculum-brat-buccina,Louder like sun, louder like you have been fawningFor breeding, like Tiny Dancer, louder like gorging onIrish spring soap, louder like deafness on theTown line of trust in Toronto


You are every phobia in a compulsive nihility

I hear you screaming and it’s louder, stiffRotten, rouge and alabaster tree spawn—

I have worshiped you into a coffin cinder,

Alabaster cradles, alabaster follicles, louder!,

Alabaster dresser drawers, unbleachedAlabaster worn out sheets, alabaster bath,L'eau de Mare, alabaster priming pills,Alabastard, you said it like I can’t hear you,love me like I don’t know it’s youHounding down my back and rearrangingMy books, turning on my television four times

A spirit feeding on aggravation

You are so loud I cannot hear myself falsify beliefremember routine pillsI cannot recite vernacular in my namedetermine if I am alive lie Leigh or a legendYour death is mine.
performance poetry
Seneca Basoalto
Seneca Basoalto
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Seneca Basoalto

I like bad words, old men, and heavy basslines

Background in the backstage music/movie scene

Iberian poet

Publications in England, Scotland, Australia, and USA through NAILED Magazine, Terror House Magazine, Utterance Journal, and many others

See all posts by Seneca Basoalto