Brian Laidlaw Poems




Callbox Hotline



even if you could drive by braille i could

not have done it in here the firs


wax in a whitehot hold

pain in them i know


i am obviously wearing your clothes

got a midriff similar


to the rent spinout

sick obviously


with a pat flatness

its reductive to claim an argument


is reductive

pat to flatten the centerfold you always


show up in. the pullover hoods

downy the moons obscene


below us is a dime you cant tell

whether its worth


picking up. nobody

signed my cast because


i never broke a bone or wrote get better

soon i tell myself


pound out & round that four

ventricled snowcone


your so hearty with. nobody

likes to miss a party


but then one day you do; the thumbnails

blacken on the tackboard i am


growing up upright arent i

i want to want to blackout but i whiteout


how the good lake froze how the slakes

inauspicious, i just wanted


a warm reception just

wanted to be wireless wanted


to graduate from marionette

unto mannequin & mannequin unto man.





Wherewithal/The Verb to Script




dont let yourself self doubt that you're handy

     building projectors

reveilles never in vain

like a sock puppet a god mans

struts upto hell in a raw place

got in there & cut a rug with bonnie

bonnie unperturbed i fly & am fly

forefinger & ringfinger render in spacetime

a hammock of where stymie

     touches timely

everyone overworks the closure shifts

the shafts foreclose fore sundown meanwhile

a journeymans playing juliet handily

suffering posterity troubles

the backdrops painted rain

     in acrylics

stem a reminiscence of hogs & hags

come for a matinee

bulletins on hiatus were posted

a roustabout shout in its stead o happy

dagger & o how the spiders in the drains pout


by the roadside there is a grown wallflower

     known as your willpower

it mustnt power off altogether

     dont let yourself wolf

breads or meds unsightly

honey we were not born with this mind or

     with this in mind

we cant let the negative space

of the self self actualize there wont

     be nothing left

     but a patch of

willow crush & a set dresser dressing down





Brian Laidlaw is a poet and songwriter from San Francisco, currently finishing an M.F.A. in Poetry at the University of Minnesota.  His work has appeared in American Songwriter Magazine and is forthcoming in FIELD, VOLT, Aufgabe, and Quarter After Eight.  News, tour, and contact information are available at



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