M. Doughty M. Doughty (1970 - )
	Onward to Victory, mule,
	with a subatomic glimmer of rage
	humming a hot inch below the cheekbones

	moving down Water Street like an ox
	hound in fleshy lumber, muscles and lumps
	pouched up and numb like insect bites

	Inside the contours of veins blown up
	by mosquitos into tidek balloons,
	a single radiowave transmits itself
	into loose bits of metal scattered around;
	Keys. Beltbuckles. Scissors. Headphones.

	Streetlights sizzle like bees being taken to slaughter.

	On Water Street, two legs
	are the chick of drills
	spearing into the blacktop

	in the light further down
	what you can only hope will be
	some Imperial China is actually
	the orange noise
	at the ends of cigarettes
	glowing at your approach

T H E  I N C R E D I B L E 
 M A G N E T I C    M A N

Looking for a guy who’s done it? M. Doughty’s the dude. Once, a million years ago (like, in 1994) he was like, ticket-taker at a jazz club, moonlighting as a poet who dared to work with bongo accompaniment, OK?. Now, he leads the hit band Soul Coughing, touring the world and laying out the map for poetry’s Crossover Revitalization Program.

Poemfone: Nibble on M. Doughty

Uh, Zoom Links

		Tonight the train is a curveball
		sloping towards portions of
		Darkest Brooklyn; some house unlit,
		like a blank face, where I assume
		you sit unsatisfied in a cubical room.


It's sad that such a talented writer gifted with the lost be-bop prosidy of Kerouac's haiku has been shackled into being recognized only for his music. Much of this prosidy can be found skedaddling along in the rhythms of his band Soul Coughing, but so much more honest intensity is evident in his writing as it stands alone. Even in the bedroom betwixt the satin sheets of Soul Coughing's primary site you can find only cheap financial ploys to buy yet another T-shirt. This isn't the man. This is his necessity to stay alive in the real world where money is required to survive. The real man promotes his self-published book of poetry, SLANKY, which apparently has nothing to do with Warner Brothers (shock!). As soon as the world comes around to recognizing literature as being an art as serious and progressive as film and fashion, we'll be reading M. Doughty to our school children. Until then, enjoy the Soul Coughing links.

Soul Coughing Addictions

		In a dim bar, the treble rose
		in sharpness around her.

		The frequecies went straight to the teeth.

		She was meringue
		In a green suit, her silver
		shoes radiating
		and a shimmy that sent
		her hips in a liquid
		piston motion to the floor
		like cream shifting in a glass.
		One glance; the eye on the eye
		sizzled like crayons
		on super 8 film,
		and she bared
		angry monkey teeth at me -
		each tooth its own moon
		in a pollution town,
		tobaccostained pickups
		on a junkstore guitar.