down in me

hello i am participating in international change your blog template (ICYBT) day which explains why this blog is now pink and which is what if you really loved me you would have noticed and emailed me about

Thing #1
Like some days ago Ben Brooks was here, but it turns out that he had been here all along. He was just hiding. His favorite hiding places are: in the fridge behind the bottled water I drink when I have panic attacks and making me laugh in front of YouTube windows and of course behind the couch. Some of the pictures in my head say: Ben eating frozen mango yogurt. Ben and Chris Killen leaning into each other in conversation. Ben sitting in the bathtub reading The Insurgent out loud. Ben making faces. Sometimes I think we talk about writing. Now Ben’s hiding in my womb.
I am reading An Island of Fifty out loud but in a soothing voice and it’s hard to tell if Ben’s listening. I want everyone to read Island of Fifty and The Insurgent right now. I want to read The Insurgent right now too and probably again at some future point.

Thing #2
In 2011 a chapbook on Mud Luscious Press will say my name and tell how my milkshake brings all the boys. A genuine MLP chap. I think it will be called this love is office lighting (great and harsh but always off when no one’s there). This is all thanks to J. A. Tyler. I fear if I think about it any more my heart will poof like glitter in a snowglobe and I will have to go to the emergency room again and I don’t like doctors.

i like matthew savoca’s field mice a whole lot.

matthew savoca, david ray, stephen daniel lewis, molly gaudry, daniel bailey and robert baumann all like mice.

i like mice too. i am cozy under daniel bailey.

thank you, stephen daniel lewis. robot melon is my favorite fruit.

i swam in the sea at some time past midnight in my panties and trees cannot do that however. i was not scared about the fish. the fish were not scared about me.

the last time i visited this town i slept in the gutter on the roof. it was five stories up and had i turned one inch to the left in my sleep i’d have fallen to my untimely drunken idiot death. lucky then that this did not happen though i often think how easy.

i heard the sea rush and could see the glass reflecting moon. this little town is magic in that it inspires minor recklessness and whatever you think about that you know things can be great if you like them.

in a white place with pillars on the side of a mountain i was groped by very many european boys until sunup. i don’t say this to amuse you it is just what happened.

finally here is a thing i wrote which ended up in JUNE PANK. i fancy pank not only for its awesome but because it sounds like ‘spank’ and i am always very pleased by palms meeting my bum at intervals.

so you see how everything makes sense.

I don’t know why boys make my ticking clock tock but we won’t go into that so there you go.

I reviewed (sorta, kinda) Scorch Atlas by Blake Butler for a shiny new site called ‘other’ which I am deeming ‘official hangout’ like The Peach Pit or The Max but with more stripey dicks and strange refrigerators.

Big-as-the-milky-way thanks to Crispin ‘Bringing the Internet Together’ Best and Socrates Adams-Florou, whose new novel touched me in my special place. Also theirs are not the stripey dicks far as I can tell.

limbs growing entwined with fertilizer
like happy plants that chew
like flowers growing for the sun
we grow each other into
several hours of exploding
for every one week of imploding
to a languid anguished afternoon
to a wish for wind or green or
for a pollinating hug or
a very leafy vine or a petal face
your skin is so soft tonight your
hair smells like the uprooting of trees

I’m 1549 on For Every Year, love like candy canes and many-headed monsters.

***

And here’s a heartfelt poem that For Every Year rejected. I still don’t understand why?

the queen of unsubtle obviousness

if i were a finger puppet
you would finger me
every time we are together
i would like that

Sleep is my favorite. No. Snort is my favorite! No! FUCK is definitely my favorite!!!

Sleep. Snort. Fuck. posted two of my things, the first one being about cocks and the other one being about cock.

Yeah, well, you know. Happiness is a warm cock and literature is a flaccid cock and I warned you this would turn into the house of fucking cock full of grade-A, number one cock.

Cocky cock peacock I love you cock

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.