down in me

I’m in PANK with the tenderness. I feel glowing and squirmy like a string of orgasms.

I felt a pulse too, or two, for the others like Geordie deBoer’s (I mean, what a great fuckin’ name) and Mark Cunningham’s. I like a voice unfamiliar that swiftly teaches you how it’s read. Carolyn Kegel’s uses two phrases that radiated through me: ‘small and unclean’ and ‘water circling and vanishing’.

I’m not going to lie, PANK: I kinda love you. And baby, I know that unlike so many others you’re not wishing I’d never said it or thinking it’s just post-coitalpublishing bliss talk.

I am busily drowning my sorrows, putting back of hand to forehead, leaning back and exclaiming woe. My dress is pretty, you should see it.

Meanwhile, on the very Red Fez there’s a good and new thing I wrote some months back this year.

You’ve never read it before. (Well, except you: but you forcibly read all my stuff and you don’t remember any of it anyway so read it again. I like it when you tell me I’m demanding. Obviously I am not.)

There’s another thing you haven’t read there, by the mysterious and enigmatic Ms Roberta Lawson and probably some more too.

I think it’s good that your eyes have to hurt a little, don’t be a flan. Slam it back, pound the table and go, man.

Not many chicks on BULL Men’s Fiction which is fucked as I can’t think of anything more exciting than a bunch of strange men leering.

I gave them a little something for their fourth PDF issue. I think they liked it because they called me a ‘bonus’ and you know how desperately I yearn for male approval.

So what happened was that Ryan Manning of cookiebomb liked a thing and told me he wanted it oh yeah baby he really wanted it. He also wanted a pair of my worn panties I believe I heard him say and I’m thinking of acquiescing while in my mind editing scenes together of him at home—

sniffing them first thing / them half hanging off his head while he edits cookiebomb and eats fruit loops / fitting lanky legs through the leg holes / struggling to keep his boner in the seat of them / picking wedgie handfuls of them / sleeping with them next to his nose / frantically masturbating into them / flinging them aside avant-cum so as not to soil them / his mother stoically tossing them into her laundry basket / his purple blinding rage at finding them downy soft and summer breezy clean

—or you know, could just be me.

I am all about the fourth issue of > kill author, the JG Ballard issue.

I am all about the newness of first encounters: Alexandra Isacson | Danny Collier | Jacqueline Anne Young | Kat Dixon | Lucy Jilka | Marc Lowe | Mark Cunningham | Meredith Legg | Rachel Andelman | Tom Leins | Verity Hill

I am all about the comfort of familiarity: Cami Park | Crispin Best | Daniel Bailey | RC Miller

I am all about this line in particular, from Cami Park’s piece: The other one of us is round and warm. —The Babies

I am all about High-Flying City Fuckers.

I am all about a cloud of chicken feathers, plenty of delicious girls; exhibiting atrocities and minds in Sunday school and poems that do not taste like poems, and wandering the chatty spaces and nothing is at all what you think it would and mysterious editors: I’d like to thank you, no ironies, thank you for not seeing me the way I see me so undeserving.

My evil plan is to be the Chloe Sevigny to (Dogzplot Flash Fiction Editor) Barry Graham’s Harmony Korine, the Uma Thurman to his Quentin Tarantino, the Laura Dern to his David Lynch, the … what I’m trying to say is, second time on Dogzplot! Read it and weep:

GUN PLAY

Just kidding, I didn’t write that one. I wish I had, but no, Howie Good visited while I slept and sucked it out my ear. I wrote:

THAT YOU GOT NOT A LOT

I just grabbed my breasts and whispered I love you baby to myself.

Every word feels wrong in my mouth. Everything is about me. Often so mundane, so real, so ordinary. I want to be happy on the couch. I want the medicine. Children chastising makes me penitent. A sorry gathering, an unfunny lifeless given-up never was a doll in a lovely dress.

Still, did you buy the Dogzplot Flash Fiction Anthology yet? Only a few left, I heard. Somebody gave me way too much credit, which was peaches.

What about QUESTIONS ABOUT LIFE AND SHIT, yow? I got mine some days ago. I am aroused it’s so well done. Green is my favourite colour* when I’m not depressed. Books is my favourite books.

I got a DRUNK SONNETS beer koozie because I pre-ordered the book some time ago. I didn’t think I’d get one but I did. I want to take a picture of it keeping some beer cold like the cool kids do but I am too sullen to take pictures. (♥ Dan Bailey)

Who said I was working on a novel? Eat me.

I don’t know what I’m doing. is this okay? Someone tell me this is okay.

UPDATE: It’s okay. I just stabbed myself with the mascara wand.

*I write it Brit ‘cause I like it. Cry to your mom.**
** I write it ‘merican ‘cause I like it. Fuck your dad.

It’s easy to get into boy’s poems. All you have to do is imagine you are there and there you are. When you are old and gay, this ability will come in handy. I think a lot about the things I like. I like Daniel Bailey so I interviewed him for Writers’ Bloc. I read THE DRUNK SONNETS he wrote full in a moment, which is weird because I don’t read as much poetry as write. A lot of it shits me. But not Dan. Some people just have puppy power bursting out of the drawing on their goddamn bellies. I’m sorry I’m not a more critical reader. By which I mean I’d like to point and say, look there, that’s where it is perfect. Instead I navigate with my fingertips. Poetry is salty piss and backwash and heart. So much heart.

I wrote some straight up non-fiction. It’s up on Reflective Dog. I’m kind of embarrassed about it. I don’t know. Like the thought of someone reading it makes me want to grab the ruffled hem of my sundress and bury my face in the fabric while inadvertently flashing everyone.

Here. Listen to a great old punky song instead:

How are you? Who cares? We are here to talk about me. But remember that I love you.

More than I love you though, I love Chris East. And I love Catherine Maskell by extension, though I have not yet had the pleasure of making her acquaintance, I am assured that she has impeccable taste, for she, along with the aforementioned object of my affections, the estimable Mr East, are publishing a wonderful book via the lovely love love Bureau de Books of love (HOT YOUNG PUBLISHING HOUSE BITCHES!) and, after much cajoling, cursing and a not inconsiderable amount of idle threatening on my part, they have included my never-before-seen-on-this-blog-or-PIFFLE-or-your-bed-poem, CAN I OFFER YOU A REFRESHER? in their new book:

QUESTIONS ABOUT LIFE AND SHIT

(and, breathe)

But what’s in it for me? you might ask, in an as yet uninformed nod to the spirit of the book itself (QUESTIONS people, are you paying attention?):

Jimmy Chen, bitch!
Vaughan Simons, bitch!
Sam Pink, bitch!
Crispin Best, bitch!
JA Tyler, bitch!

A ‘veritable who’s who’ of my blogroll plus a million question marks worth of cool stories with even more question marks in their titles, bitch! Finally! The answers to the burning questions you have sweated over:

AM I HOW THIS IS?
WHAT ARE WE?
WHEN WILL I FINALLY DIE?
and,
WHOSE GODDAMN OATMEAL IS THIS?

¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ I love you, bitch ????????????????????

I INTERVIEW MIKE YOUNG, AUTHOR OF MC OROVILLE’S ANSWERING MACHINE
FOR WRITERS’ BLOC

Contains: skateboarding, BBQs, masturbation, magic helicopters, persimmons, shit-talk, charcoal, country music, assbags, and …

a song dedicated to meee! (and Writers’ Bloc, but mainly me)

You seen this shit lately?

Alright, alright. I know I (WE) am (ARE) not the most consistent gal (HUMANS) this side of the internet, but I’m a poet, right?

Shut up.

Do you know how long it took me to accept that I like to write poetry? A long fucking time is what what.

I refuse to make apologies.

But wait, this wasn’t supposed to be about me. What I meant was:

PIFFLE. Now with added Gena Mohwish sprinkles and marshmallow Chris Easts! Mmmmm!

Eat it up spit it out tell your mom watch us burn.