24th March 2011
i am not allowed to come here any more
because i am trying not to see
because all these fingers are good for
is masturbation
i am not allowed to come here any more
because i am trying not to see
because all these fingers are good for
is masturbation
Makes me think of ‘stamen’ which makes me think of sex.
I know what you’re thinking. One day I will become diseased because I am too obvious.
Pastel Comedown is a tiny little stamen from my ovaries to yours.
If you listen closely you can hear me ovulating, dopamine-depleted, humming still.
One day I will grow big as Manhattan.
And eat you all with kisses. Specially Roxane Gay and the other nice Bluestemmers whom I do not know on twitter.
Stamens. Apparently the plural form is also stamina. Esta mina. La loca malparida. Mariposeando.
What’s a pistil, is that a part of a flower, too? La pistola.
Google seems nice.
Oh I forgot to tell you: that’s the last story in the trilogy. I’m fairly sure.
The Indie Lit Community Survey 2011 was created by > kill author and posted by Marcus Speh on his blog, Nothing to Flawnt. My answers are below. I was going to post this on WWAATD (which is why it looks sort of official) but then I felt like it was too personal.
i just sat on the toilet and cried this ‘eeeee’ sound. it sounded like a dolphin but less nasally, more choked. the toilet and the crying are unrelated. i mean, sometimes you sit on the toilet and you cry because you are constipated and your butt hurts or you have the runs and your butt hurts, and sometimes you sit on the toilet because you have to pee and as the stream gushes out of you you remember what a fuckup you are and do a noise like a dolphin but sadder. my life is like if you turn a bunch of esses on their stomachs and link them together like an s centipede. that didn’t work. up and down is what i mean. up and down. my grandfather is dying but i can only think about not being invited to someone’s party because as i always say, we are all dying. what’s the word for always thinking about dying but never actually dying. well, not never. i didn’t even call him because i didn’t want to listen to him say how tired he is and not get to say how tired i am back because he’s lived almost three times as long and that just seems unfair but motherfucker, i am tired too. i am so fucking tired. i haven’t done a thing but i just want to curl up fetal and have someone kick the shit out of me for at least five minutes. hi, this is a blog post that aims to get your attention. hi, this blog post says, PITY ME. hi, this blog post says, hello, i am a human, how are you. crazy girls are attractive until they wile out about you, this blog post says. this blog post says, i don’t care that you know i am fucked up. this is the kind of blog post that people delete their blogs after, i think. don’t worry, all five of you. i am not going to do that because i am short on self-esteem. that ‘all five of you’ sounded bitter. i promise you it is not. after just one of you came here, my shitty life was validated. they paid my mom in karma points for carrying me all those nine months. next time, she might get to be rich, she’s already been beautiful. i continue to do ‘unapologetic personal blog’ because i am stubborn and a masochist. and i don’t have ‘healthy channels’ for my stupid feelings. and the one person who moved for me found religion. and i am always dying. and i always have to write when my hands and arms feel empty anxious inside and i’m sober. but it’s no longer just enough to write, you gotta hit ‘publish’ or you never exist.
i was going to write a blog post but instead i have decided to go out and get a bottle of vodka so maybe later yeah
i am reading at adam j maynard’s my name is mud book launch thing in oxford on saturday. but they are doing fun things, like performances and dancing or something and a film reel i heard. come say hi and see me ‘live’ so you can tell your internet friends how i am not as pretty as you thought i would be.
pretty sure i had those same shoes.
i’ve been doing things like becoming a ‘co-editor’ at we who are about to die and wondering whether that means i have to start writing ‘serious literary analysis’ (pahahaha!) and stop talking in public about how much semen i eat (i am going with: ‘fuck your sexual repression’).
i started reviewing books for j. a. tyler, reviews editor at red fez. i say for j. a. because he is the nicest. one day a kid said ‘submit to mlp’ and i did and i have been a happy farmer since, cultivating a kind of working relationship in which things are done for the love of the soil and the rain and the sun.
the first review i did is stories ii by scott mcclanahan that if you don’t know yet you are a bird falling from the sky for no apparent reason.
in the smoke outside pubs i have been yelling at third-world chauvinist fucks about how i am lucky to sit on the curb in this city in this country in the world in this space at six a.m. in this day in this year of our own and my vagina doesn’t make anything impossible, for my vagina when i choose it to can be lifebringing not lifedestroying so shut the fuck up.
i have been reading cormac mccarthy again and thinking i can crib his word compounding thing but i can’t.
i have been loving him.
i have been practicing that i am someone else so i can show up to this and read some nice things for everyone. if you are close by and you come i might be able to give you a present that comes straight from the united states of america in the form of some words on paper in a lovely type. thanks again to sugarface j. a. tyler and his sweeeeeet mud luscious press.
i have been doing things like thinking about this year ahead of us and making plans for our future.
j/k, yo. plans. haha. i’ve really just been drinking and smoking and fucking. :)
clearly you
have missed
the point
of my poetry
is that a ‘statement of irrefutable fact’? is it possible that there is someone in the world right now whom someone did not love however briefly? even as a baby? even if a baby’s mother did not love him, is it possible that not even a hospital nurse cared for him? is it possibly for someone to grow up completely unloved, however wrongly loved?
People getting soft and maudlin. People lining the streets with linoleum. The terrace full and wanting of people. Back when women were strange, their dewy limbs, their warm freckled faces. Women were statuesque, their fine burlesque, their hips caressing the gauzy insides of their flowing dresses.
You didn’t see them back then, those people. Those people queueing for their just deserts. You didn’t see the gushing rivers, the women scrubbing themselves in their long underwear in the current.
People freely kissing on the porch, their eyes upturned, their mouths pressed together, their hands held. Your friends all smiling. Your wild weathered insides, nose breathing gentle, a newborn fawn wet with placenta and bleating on new life.
one. i am three years old and there is a big party with loads of people and my grandmother and my mother love dancing so they are dancing and laughing and happy. maybe it is a family party. lots of people and i am too little. all i see is legs. i look for my mother literally to hide in her skirts and she’s wearing this blinding gold and diamond bracelet and a gold seventies dress and i remember everything about the fabric of the dress. it’s not bright gold, it’s gold like shiny dijon mustard, a muted, elegant gold, the tiniest sparkles woven through giving it its polished sheen. my mother’s warm flowery perfume, like blooming yellow roses is all i smell and her dress all i see and i feel safe and happy and beautiful and loved.
two. i don’t know if i remember this so much or more because it’s a yellowing photograph in one of my grandmother’s many albums, but i must be again three or maybe two, my hair is a bowl of golden brown ringlets someone poured atop my head and my eyes are honey wide and glittering and my lips are wetpink and i am sitting with my feet on the bed next to my dad’s big, sunspotty hand and i am chubby in that lovely baby way and i am wearing a soft onesie the color of a babychick, the kind of onesie with the snap buttons and the feet attached with the white vinyl for soles, and the cotton fabric is so warm against me and my dad is looking down at me and he is smiling condescendingly and i feel safe and happy and beautiful and loved.