Nick Flynn

(1960 - / Boston / United States)

Comments about Nick Flynn

Enter the verification code :

  • Rookie - 0 Points Gunnar Jauch (12/26/2014 2:44:00 AM)


    It's not like his songs are going to simply

    but since the news I can't stop
    listening to him

    on endless shuffle - familiar, yes, inside
    me, yes, which means

    I'm alive, or was, depending on when
    you read this. Now

    a song called Sad
    Song, the last one on Berlin,

    sung now from the other side, just talk,
    really, at the beginning, then

    the promise
    or threat, I'm gonna stop wasting

    my time, but what else
    are we made of, especially now? A chorus

    sings sad song sad song sad song sad

    song. I
    knew him better than I new my own

    father, which means
    through these songs, which means

    not at all, They died on the same day, O
    what a perfect day, maybe

    at the same moment, maybe
    both their bodies are laid out now in

    the freezer, maybe side by side, maybe
    holding hands, waiting

    for the fire or the earth or the man
    or the salt -

    If I could I'd let the birds devour whatever's left
    & carry them into the sky, but all I can do

    it seems
    is lie on the couch & shiver, pull a coat

    over my body as if it were all I had, as if I
    the one sleeping outside, as if it were my

    body something was leaving, rising up
    from inside me

    & the coat could hold it inside
    maybe a little longer.

    –- Nick Flynn
    Published in The New Yorker, Nov.25,2013

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.

Twenty-Pound Stone

It nests in the hollow of my pelvis, I carry it with both hands, as if
offering my stomach, as if it were pulling me forward.

At night the sun leaks from it, it turns cold, I sleep with it
beside my head, I breath for it.

Sometimes I dream of hammers.

I am hammering it back into sand, the sand we melt into glass,

[Hata Bildir]