Razors pain you;
rivers are damp;
acids stain you;
and drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
nooses give;
gas smells awful;
you might as well live.
by Dorothy Parker
I hate my poems.
I used to love them, back when they knew their place.
Poems are like dogs you walk in the park
to attract off-duty firemen who love them and in turn love you.
Not my poems.
My poems used to be shy, they used to stand in front of the
mirror
and complain about their bloated syntax and pimpled thematic
structure.
But now they leave the house in couplets I don’t remember
rhyming,
and when I ask where they’re going and with whom they’re going
out,
they say, “He’s not your style. He writes think pieces, political
pieces.”
Oh god, not think pieces, not political pieces.
My poems see a guy across a crowded room,
start talking pretty saying things like “Your eyes are like moons,”
and before I know it, I’m left standing alone at a punch bowl.
I’ll grab a stanza’s arm and say, “Just let me have this one, please.”
“You snooze, you lose,” it responds, rolling its eyes.
“You think you’re so hot with your semicolons,” I shout after it,
“but I wrote you for a class assignment! You weren’t even
inspired by anything!”
My poems make better theatre dates than me.
They make jokes, they offer multilayered compliments,
they know someone in the chorus.
My poems spend money without thinking twice.
They hold hands with men on the subway no matter who’s
looking.
“How’d you get so fearless?” I ask a particularly savvy poem that
insists
on all lowercase letter and refuses every title but “untitled”.
“I don’t know. Are you jealous?” it replies,
its thumb making circles on the palm of a modern dancer/social
activist.
My poems are bitches.
So they’ve been to some festivals, that doesn’t mean they know me.
“You’re much less grateful than my earlier work, when I used to
title poems,” I snap.
“You mean the ones you wrote with Tori Amos playing in the
background
and without the sense of humour?” “untitled” retorts.
My poems also come knocking in the very early morning,
and I let them sleep on my couch, and they cry about cruel men
and betrayal and Karl Rove,
and I hold them and remember why I wrote them.
I’ve needed to be fearless, to not capitalize words,
to laugh, to spend money, and to leave something untitled.
I’ve needed them to be my spies,
to have their hearts broken and their spirits tattered,
and to come back to me for punctuation.
by Isaac Oliver
| — | From The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon |
| — | From The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon |
DIANE: You know, when I was a child I always
imagined I’d marry the man I fell in
love with, have a son and daughter who
loved me as much as I hated my mother,
then die tragically and suddenly,
young and beautiful. Later, when
Vincent left me, I imagined I’d finally
be happy.
LENNY: I guess you’ve never lost your imagination.
| — | From Happiness (1998) by Todd Solondz |
this ain’t no party
this ain’t no disco
this ain’t no foolin a
grab-bag of
clever wordplay and sensitive thoughts and
gracious theories about
how many ambiguities can dance on the head of a
machine gun
this ain’t no
genteel evening over
cappuccino and bullshit
this ain’t no life-affirming
our days have meaning
as we watch the flowers breath through our souls and
fall desperately in love
this ain’t no letter-press, hand-me-down
wimpy beatnik festival of bitching about
the broken rainbow
by David Lerner
| — | From Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk (via ivylively) |
| — | From Postage Partum by Nik de Dominic |
This is a list of catchy, somewhat funny, famous last words of executed (justly or unjustly) individuals:
1) “Hurry up, you Hoosier bastard, I could kill ten men while you’re fooling around!”
Spoken by Carl Panzram, convicted serial killer.
2) “Hey fellas, how about this for a headline for tomorrow’s paper? ‘French Fries’”
Spoken by James French, convicted murderer. Apparently the dude was given a life-sentence and decided it was a really fucking long while. So he thought it was a brilliant idea to kill his cellmate so that he would be executed! Good for him.
3) “I’ll be in hell before you start breakfast!”
Spoken by Tom “Black Jack” Ketchum, a murderer and a thief. As one can see, Ketchum was a morning person and as things go, his executioner didn’t appreciate Ketchum’s witty remark since a “technical issue” with the rope, which caused him to be decapitated when he dropped through the gallows.
4)“Well, gentlemen, you are about to see a baked Appel.”
Spoken by George Appel, convicted murderer.
5) “You sons of bitches. Give my love to Mother.”
Spoken by Francis “Two Gun” Crowley before getting executed for a three-months killing spree among other crimes.
6) “I’d like to thank my family for loving me and taking care of me. And the rest of the world can kiss my everloving ass, because I’m innocent.”
Spoken by Johnny Frank Garrett, who was executed for raping and murdering a 76 year old nun when he was 17. when examined by a psychiatrist, it was discovered that Garrett suffered from multiple personality disorder. However, the state refused to test for DNA evidence and whether Garrett really committed any crime is unsure.
7) “I’d rather be fishing.”
Spoken by Jimmy L. Glass, executed at the age of 25 for murdering a couple.
8) “I did not get my Spaghetti-O’s, I got spaghetti. I want the press to know this.”
Spoken by Jimmy L. Glass, executed for murdering two women: one 87 years old and another 81 years old.
9) “Such is Life”
Spoken by Ned Kelly, convicted cop-killer.
10) “Shoot straight you bastards and don’t make a mess of it!”
Harry Harbord “Breaker” Morant, convicted mass murderer.
