This album, but specifically, THIS SONG made me want to be a poet. in the second grade. Then our school celebrated natl. poetry month and I bought a collection of nautical children’s poetry and that was that. mesmerized by the misty boat imagery and crusty sailor wistfulness, homesickness, and the idea of being lost at sea. memorized a section of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner for a class assignment for natl poetry month. fell in love with the beastie boys “licensed to ill” and, that’s that. have been writing (trying to write) absurd, apocalyptic, raunchy, nautical rhyming shit ever since. Ali and poetry, a history. forgive my narccissism. its about to get worse with an outfit post. Had these stockpiled from my last dress up madness session, plus took one today to give you an idea of “MY WORKING GIRL LOOK” or, if you’d rather, an idea of how stupid and ridiculous my job is and why I am on the internet all the time these days. Now don’t get me wrong, I do some actual cool and legitimate stuff that slightly negates my cave troll homebody status– but yeah…for the most part, CAVE TROLL/INTERNET MAVEN is my calling/identity by trade.
(and, adding this in just to make myself feel better: part time creative writing tutor/rare collections book mender/Poetry NW indentured bitch.) (there, i feel better.)
no pants. dumb face.
business whore calvin klein cowboy anyone? calvin blazer, pinstriped tights, guess booty shorts, thrifted see-thru velvet 90s belly top.
What I actually wear to work. I like to call it Alice in Wonderland MOSES caterpillar. Either that, or Mother Hobo, the psychedelic patron saint of homebodies and cave trolls. sometimes I wear my hair in a towel. sometimes I wear flannel socks. REMEMBER, your fashion statement is ALL IN THE ACCESSORIES.
honestly I don’t even know how i’d fare in a real office environment. I’d probably implode and leave behind radioactive sparkle debri and an aura of despair
and just to add to the brat factor of this post, here is a sonnet I wrote a while ago and recently edited:
Division; Family Man and The Plan:
Leaving is where my art lies. It forbids
home as though the house itself were the plague.
I fled the womb as babe; jumped gun into kid.
The expansive sea makes the mountain beg
for crumble. I smelled the shit smell of home
and begged for a drink of vodka mango.
I saw my mother puckered, wielding the comb,
she tore my knotty hair with finger tango–
love violence. and now I hate my mother.
How predictable. I am twenty two.
Hate my father. A creature of smothered
rages, décollage of classic taboos,
spared no ruse. drank as much booze as I could.
who wouldn’t, infused as I was with such bad blood?
The child is a dud. no good cunt would do such
a rotten thing to someone who gives her so much
WAH WAH WAH
what a pest, pernicious poster of bad poems, #poester