wait more pandering...
that's not really two girls. figure it out & win a shout out.
& here we will mock the literary world cool kids & here we will mock the literary nerds & here we will mock ourselves & here we will promote the literary world & here we will promote the literary nerds & cool kids we like & here we might promote some of our own shit (cos that's how writers roll foreverever) & here we will review your books but only if you send them to us or if we happen to stumble upon them & love them...
send us stuff you want us to read...send us stuff that mocks pretensions...send us stuff about how hot we are...send us stuff we want to read & share & make others read...
we will start with a recap of the mockeries.
we will start with a poet laureate & his nymphet. they are not real but their names are.
First epic poem for two
I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
and if my tattoos could impersonate
Gaga, they'd bossily, saucily say
let's have some fun, this beat's my dub,
I wanna take a ride on your billy club.
I'm so glad you're done fucking
around with that
she a lesbian? Come
enjoy the company of a woman
whose clothes are already off.
Kimmie, your stuff's better than Emily
tight & wet & sings the blues about love
& cigarettes every time I enter it.
No one ever asks how many angels
can fit in there; no one ever holds your
muff up to the light. I say drop mousey
me in & watch me probe my way out.
Oh Billy boy, flattery will get you
all you were ever afraid to write about:
cunt envy, a reading gig on
the evening after the farmer's market when
you'll understand the aerodynamics of
rotten rhubarb and radicchio. Talk about wet
and singing the blues. Don't worry, I'll
unbutton the top three and distract
the mob--but now you owe me. Blurb me,
oh yeah, right there.
I’ll blurb you so hard that the neighbor’s dog
will start barking again and I’ll wish I had
a gun. But you, Kimmie dear, are ammo enough
for an old poet like me; I’ve said there’s
nothing I need more than what’s on my kitchen
table. I lied. Until that day when
wifey’s away and I throw you up on it,
my kitchen’s desolate and too homey
without your tatt-ed body. I want to
see you bucking the cherry wood across
the linoleum as you writhe under
my pen. I will write you hard and I’ll write
you long, as long as my old flesh can, and if
you workshop me, I’ll even try revision.
stacia & ryder