Have you ever felt the universe was bringing something to your attention? And in response, have you been like, “Thanks, weirdo. Keep it to yourself next time.”
I visited Write Bloody publishing company a few Fridays ago. There was some misleading information printed in the Austin Chronicle, calling it the “Best place to get buzzed on poetry,” and some other stuff which led me to believe there would be slam poetry in addition to free beer. Write Bloody was staffed by two tiny poetess proprietresses, who handed us frosty Lonestars upon entering, and denied the rumors of slam.
Write Bloody specializes in poems that skew irreverent, with anthologies entitled Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns, Slow Dance with Sasquatch, and Hot Slut, to name but a few.
“I sure do enjoy dinosaur porn!” one of the women manning the register said, or something. There’s a new breed of erotica on the loose, she explained. Vampires, surgeons and pirates are no longer enough for the lady who likes her sex cheap, and in book form. Dinosaurs are the latest object of buxom Brandi’s desire, the apple of her flashing eyes and throbbing loins.
A few days later, a friend many states away contacted me with an urgent piece of information. This exists:
It’s at times such as these I feel I need to sit down with the hive consciousness, the mystical energy that permeates all living things and allows people in disparate places to think as one, and say, “I don’t like you.” This is the kind of flotsam and jetsam I don’t need clogging up my thought-process when I’m trying to decide if existence is pointless or not. Clearly, if we have time to spend on dino-porn, it is.
I checked out Taken By the T-Rex on Amazon. $2.99 for a book that weighs in at 17 pages. SEVENTEEN. I guess I shouldn’t complain that something that has no right to exist is at least stupid short.
Enough of that trash. Let’s get our shit together and read some poetry.
Here is an excerpt from “All Distortion, All the Time,” from the Write Bloody publication I Love You is Back, a collection of poems by Derrick C. Brown:
I want my kitchen to be a Brazilian dance floor
with a pot of your sweat in the oven
and a fridge stocked with booty lust
I want your silver muscles cut into a quilt. Let me sleep beneath your strength.
I want more pony lamps. No reason.
I want to sing this feeling into all tailpipes
until I’m exhausted.
I want to smell everything.