Two Poems by Peter Fried

“What’s Hidden Beneath the Surface”

What’s hidden beneath the surface?

Being late? Not on time? Not showing up?

Showing down? Somewhere else? Where? 

Where is she? Did you screw up again? Did 

you walk through batwing doors and get smacked 

in your face? Knocked out, Thrilla-in-Manila style?

Socked, punched, whacked, biffed in the head? 

Did you see stars? Where? Which stars did you see? 

Constellations? Tell me. I want to know what happened 

when you showed up late. Loaded with anxiety, and 

expectation. Released. Mesmerized.

Ready to write it down. To spill the beans.To dissemble 

the assembled, to take it all apart like an axonometric 

diagram of an exploding fridge in an Antonioni movie. 

Light up a big one Martin. Let’s watch Zabriskie Point 

and be stoned when the fridge blows up, and the beautiful girls with 

their golden oyster shoulders move through space like piranhas

eating crabs chewing the cud letting the lamps know it’s okay to shine

to be brave, to be new, to say f-you baby this is me. 

Magical Awesome Beautiful Free! 

“Now It’s My Turn”

Now it’s my turn. To dive into the shadow. To 

spear the fish of discontent.To revel

to embrace the cactus. To ink

the spot. To sign on the dotted line.

To fake it to make it. Now it’s my turn 

to use the phone. To dial the number to sit

on the grey metal housing for

four fat London phone books.

Perhaps I should consider whether it 

might give way under my weight.

As sounds come from my mouth. As

ballet dancers move past with their

eccentric garments, and their knitted 

woolen hosiery impeccably tousled around

their gifted ankles somehow managing to

avoid contact with scattering trash finding 

it’s way to Euston Road. I forget

the name of the pub where the Pogues used

to play after their brief chaotic commute

from their unruly domicile on Burton Street….

06-17-20. Peter Fried.