Metal Poetry

By Chris Antzoulis


Fuck Mumford and Sons

There are butchers
crawling up the street;
they were once living
in dank holes
that we covered
with amendments,
with shirts, ties, and pant
and just a thin layer of soil.
We planted seeds.
And we talked so much
the spittle made them grow.
But they could hear
when we lost
And so they pulled
at the roots,
tore the fabric
and ignored the language
after we misplaced
it’s electricity.

And as the first one of us went
with a butcher,
we lead with a quiver
as they unfurled
in a wave of knives and torches.


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What I Saw That Night

It was real,
I would always tell myself.
It was real,
and I don’t know
if I’ll ever be the better for it.

My hand lie atop
my stomach where,
a knife with teeth
licked inside,

and after it twisted
and left me a chewed up mess

it asked if I would
ever trust a person in need
ever again.

I was 6,
and to reach the toilet
in the middle of the night,
I had to cross
the threshold to the stairs.

Staring beyond
our front door
I would see the concrete
walkway through its window.

From the bushes
crawled every nightmare
I could conjur.

One night it was a man
coughing up yellow bile
before I ever knew what bile was,
but I seemed to understand why it would leak
from our mouths.

We should enjoy our festivals.
Italians seem to the most.

San Gennaro
seems to be the patron saint
of fried Oreos,
mozzarella steak sandwiches,
and Frank Sinatra.
A man walks up and asks me,
Don’t you know who I am?

I shake my head,
and watch his hands.

I say No,
I say Should I?

He makes me Google him.
My friend texts me
to help with the monsters
in her bushes.

I run toward the stairs.
I run to New Jersey.

I don’t have a problem
with the idea of Hell.
Every demon I’ve ever met
is real upfront
about all the frills.

My first cassette
was Billy Joel’s
“Glass Houses.”

First song,
“You May Be Right.”

I would tap my foot
and smile at the thought
of being a lunatic.

My high school girlfriend
would sometimes slip
her hand under my waistband
and grab me.

I told her, Not until we’re married.

Turn out the light.
Don’t try to save me.

There’s a bar near Lorton,
Virginia, where you can share a bucket
of beer with a friend
after his mother passes.

The back wall is non-existent.
The bar stools face you toward
the river.

Soon the evening looks upon the water,
with all its bright spangled accessories

and you’ll have finished two buckets.

You won’t recall much of the dialogue.
Just the buckets.
Just dark water
and the wealth
to be pocketed from the sky.

The house across the street from mine
has high fences
keeping in two dogs
I’ve only ever heard.

Everyone’s windows are open tonight.
We like to breathe when we can.

I heard a little boy screaming for help.
Exclaiming that his father was, indeed, the worst
father ever. After
I heard him, I thought about finding out
if it was true.

I knocked at the gate.
The dogs must’ve been inside,
although the only barking
from inside was speaking English.

And now it quieted.
It walked down the steps,
on a concrete walkway,
and open the gate.

I used to find my mother
crying in her closet
from migraines.

She would sit near
my favorite hiding spot,
which had been behind her clothes and shoes,
pressed up against the back corner of the walk-in,
which smelled like her.

I put my head in her lap
and stared up,
where I thought her face
might be.

She would hold my hand.
Your hands are always warm,
she would say.


Chris Bio Photo


Chris Antzoulis is a New York-based poet and comic book writer with an MFA in writing from Sarah Lawrence College. His poetry has appeared in Yes PoetryNewtown LiteraryLuna Luna, FLAPPERHOUSE, decomP magazinE, and others. He has also helped other writers reach audiences through his work with literary magazines such as Madcap Review and Lumina. He currently lives in Queens, NY, with his two evil cats and teaches creative writing at Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, NY. For more information, or to contact Chris, you can visit


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