She snores at night, which I can hear through the wall, loudly, like a Tell-Tale Sinus Infection. Edgar Allen Poe is desperate to clench bottles of cold medication and two-fist them.
Writing session. Erotica seems to be the order of the night for my stuff, something to do with the next issue of Apparatus, and I've been reading Ginsberg again -- I'm all burnt up and blazing on deviant sexuality. T.S. Eliot. I want to write a lot of poems and explode poetry bombs in post offices and shopping malls, fortune-cookie-thin papers in the air, each one full of nonsense rhymes and inappropriate phrases like "His pubic hair was astroturf - close-curled and clearly fake."
Comments (2)
Imagine being a writing professor? You'd always have people like us leering over your shoulder and then writing things that "don't make sense to them". Lit Mags are fun in the way they are creepy.
Posted by matt | July 14, 2004 10:16 AM
Posted on July 14, 2004 10:16
We're paid to be inexplicable.
We're paid to be UNDESIRABLE.
Posted by ben | July 14, 2004 6:51 PM
Posted on July 14, 2004 18:51