• Matt Smythe

AND SOMETIMES THE POETRY AIN’T ABOUT FISHING.

Updated: Jul 10

A few classics from back in the day, inspired by music and road trips. And women.

THE AIR ON BOURBON

Her voice was enough to make me walk in here & I can’t believe the rose (thorns & all), her slow anguish in mid-air & the three guys

sweatin’ through Sunday suits & that thrumming bass all in emanation from neon God Damn what that woman’s doin’ to me.

CURB-SIDE

I stand in the street-brass breeze on the wrong side of town lifting up-up-up along that shrill trill mid air to drown & man…

that sound squeaks through a mellow lowness— a low-down that climbs from gutter to kiss soft lips— a sharp-tongued bird flown on sweet sweet slow wings & my pulse keeps what time it can.

IN BED WITH THE DEVIL

The first time I went I brought a guitar and an I-don’t-give-a-shit state of mind. The devil was nothing but the lowest you could sink to ask a favor of. I still brought a guitar though. I still went at midnight. Sat and played a few chords in the stillness. When she walked up, crunching gravel under impossible heels, she took my guitar in both hands, frowned and threw it into the darkness of a nearby field.

DRINKING WHISKEY & PLAYING CARDS IN A JUKE SOUTH OF MEMPHIS

The pot was enough to put gas in my truck and a meal in my belly— enough to grab a wink from that fine waitress. My glass was empty & it was my deal— five card stud, nothin’s wild.

I only make it look hard.


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thank fucking god for that guitar making the most of his chance in hell whiskey with two ice cubes amphetamine fiddle and impossible banjo run lightning-strike tiptoes I can’t hear fast enough mando a

CORPUS CHRISTI

I wake to the wilderness in her eyes and a futile wish for cool air from the ceiling fan. Morning coffee and a cigarette on the porch. Shafts of sun and smoke tendrils. The coffee still too hot to sip

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© 2017 By Matt Smythe