Peter Davis is 33 and lives in Muncie, Indiana with his wife and son. He edited
Poet's Bookshelf: Contemporary Poets on Books that Shaped Their Art. He has
poems forthcoming in Conconut, McSweeney's and Court Green. Recently, his
poems appeared in Octopus, Shampoo, and Mipo.
Hitler's Mustache: The Sneaky
How it creeps. As a sow. A must average, most average, stash of must. It climbs into our pajamas like a lost cell phone. It's the little kid in us that must jump on the bed, must thump on the scab, much ash, mist splashed, troubled youth on their way to military school. But first, the razor. But first the sculpture. But first the face fur. But first the puberty that allows it. But first the childhood below it. But first the infant giggles. But first the breath. But first the mother's pleasure. But first the first thought. It's moose clashing suddenly, masts, abs matched with water, must stuffed with much stuff. It's music wet and slipped into your pores. It's much masked. It's mosquito as. It finds a ravine and forms a river. It uses gravity. It inserts (like parentheses) itself as might Adolf. Much fashion in its must fashion some most fascist fascist. Some black square. Some black square mooched stash of itself. Of its black square mooched stash self. The inner mashed asp of black squares. Its interior ash masher. The mashed ass. The must ASAP. The M venom.
Hitler's Mustache: The Mission Statement
This particular group of black hairs that assembled on Hitler's upper lip, collectively, are known as Hitler's Mustache. The members of Hitler's Mustache wish to represent, accurately, the stupidity and folly of this particular group of hairs. The members of Hitler's Mustache are advocates of the extinction of other hairs which may, in the future, grow to form an evil mustache. The member's of Hitler's Mustache realize that these hairs could take the shape of a handlebar mustache, or even a mustache connected to some long sideburns, but Hitler's Mustache is solely dedicated to the mystery of the individual square, black, 'Hitler Style,' mustache.
Hitler's Mustache: The Devoted Family Son
I apologize for the inconvenience I've created by exploring whatever awful thing it was that spun me through neighborhood streets on my bed of nails, my back pricked with cliches, my ugly little simulated sleep, my snowstorm on bare skin. Ah! Reading The Catcher in the Rye surely mustached outbursts. Mustache must have hatched hatchets in my junky skull. My skateboard may have ground a fine powder of dashed hopes from the curbs of suburbia or wherever the rich, flavorful, fat meat was. Wherever milkshakes wash streaked hair, wherever buttercups appear in ashes, sometimes, whatnot, of course high school. You can't have a wet dream without Freudian slips.
I consider myself to be rich in this sort of mustache. You may discover my devotion is in mustache measurements, perhaps annoyingly so, but you discover this--What shall we do now? I suspect, or propose, I suppose we should develop a new shadow mustache and let this become a bat in our family and dive down through this cave all blind and mustache-guided.
Hitler's Mustache: The Understanding
I remember my inability to feel comfortable at my own dinner table. Were I to sculpt open my stomach with the knife used to saw the family turkey leg, I may find my feast unappetizing, I may find my own stomach un-carveable, I might not actually have a knife in my hand and am instead holding a vegetable; a cucumber if you will, or a small orange squash thing. If I find myself saying something delicate to the form, something not wish washy or stupid, a sublime supplement to our already understood body of knowledge, if you will--If I have a mustache in my hand, holding it palm up and waving it below the eyes of the natives, if I'm dramatic with it and treat it like a kind of medicine, an ancient vibe thing of roots and whatnot, hubbub, etc. It's nearly like a switchblade now. A sort of commonly used instrument of slivering, shaving, sticking, shiving, and poking.
The sash of the giant M hangs limply.
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