Brandon Downing is originally from San Francisco, California, where he was co-founder and director of Blue Books, a non-profit literary bookstore and performance space in the city's Mission District. Since 2000 he has lived in New York City, where he works as an exhibit designer and researcher and spends his time on planes. A photographer, collagist and filmmaker as well as a poet, his books include The Shirt Weapon (Germ Monographs, 2002) and Dark Brandon (Faux Press, 2005).
Night of the Blood Beast (1958)
Most of the men disapeared from an open garage.
It is 7pm Thursday, workers are out together, afloat.
Rain shimmers in the gutters. Why?
For almost ever, you have imitated yourself.
But afterward, you will imitate me.
And your very cells will become morbido,
Slung into the compartment, a featureless face.
So it is, from a graveyard out in the hall.
Am I believing in death for the dead.
On Saturday the jeep hit me on the beach
When I was giggling at Will,
The calamitous, ghoulish pearls I wore fell off.
Pathos carried in the sword he stole from God,
This ended my dazzling talks with Leif
"No, Head!..." "Steal for as long as you dream..."
"I'm dead: I'm not sure what it means for us..."
Or peaceful fear endured by the thin.
On the overlook we talked about you magazine.
We had moved in, with our rocks,
To eavesdrop on the talking costumes—
'Fozzie', maybe some of the other muppets...don't laugh,
One of hose muppes was feeding on me when I came to.
That's when I stabbed myself, falling into a hanging wound
in the flaming ground.