The blog of author Dennis Cooper

15 of the American poems that helped me stop trying to imitate Rimbaud back in the ’70s

—-
This Dark Apartment
by James Schuyler

Coming from the deli
a block away today I
saw the UN building
shine and in all the
months and years I’ve
lived in this apartment
I took so you and I
would have a place to
meet I never noticed
that it was in my view.

I remember very well
the morning I walked in
and found you in bed
with X. He dressed
and left. You dressed
too. I said, “Stay
five minutes.” You
did. You said, “That’s
the way it is.” It
was not much of a surprise.

Then X got on speed
and ripped off an
antique chest and an
air conditioner, etc.
After he was gone and
you had changed the
Segal lock, I asked
you on the phone, “Can’t
you be content with
your wife and me?” “I’m
not built that way,”
you said. No surprise.

Now, without saying
why, you’ve let me go.
You don’t return my
calls, who used to call
me almost every evening
when I lived in the coun-
try. “Hasn’t he told you
why?” “No, and I doubt he
ever will.” Goodbye. It’s
mysterious and frustrating.

How I wish you would come
back! I could tell
you how, when I lived
on East 49th, first
with Frank and then with John,
we had a lovely view of
the UN building and the
Beekman Towers. They were
not my lovers, though.
You were. You said so.

Teaching the Ape to Write Poems
by James Tate

They didn’t have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
“You look like a god sitting there.
Why don’t you try writing something?”

First Grade
by Ron Koertge

Until then, every forest
had wolves in it, we thought
it would be fun to wear snowshoes
all the time, and we could talk to water.

So who is this woman with the gray
breath calling out names and pointing
to the little desks we will occupy
for the rest of our lives?

Dear Superman
by Ron Koertge

I know you think that things
will always be the same: I’ll rinse
out your tights, kiss you good-bye
at the window, and every few weeks
get kidnapped by some stellar goons.
But I’m not getting any younger,
and you’re not getting any older.

Pretty soon I’ll be too frail
to take aloft, and with all those
nick-of-time rescues, you’re bound
to pick up somebody more tender
and just as ga-ga as I used to be.
I’d hate her for being 17 and you
for being… what, 700?

I can see your sweet face as you read
this, and I know you’d like to siphon
off some strength for me, even if it
meant you could only leap small buildings
at a single bound. But you can’t,
and, anyway, would I want to
just stand there while everything
else rushed past?

Take care of yourself and of the world
which is your own true love. One day
soon, as you patrol the curved earth,
that’ll be me down there tucked in
for good, being what you’ll never be
but still

Your friend,
Lois Lane

Fault
by Ron Koertge

In the airport bar, I tell my mother not to worry.
No one ever tripped and fell into the San Andreas
Fault. But as she dabs at her dry eyes, I remember
those old movies where the earth does open.

There’s always one blonde entomologist, four
deceitful explorers, and a pilot who’s good-looking
but not smart enough to take off his leather jacket
in the jungle.

Still, he and Dr. Cutie Bug are the only ones
who survive the spectacular quake because
they spent their time making plans to go back
to the Mid-West and live near his parents

while the others wanted to steal the gold and ivory
then move to Los Angeles where they would rarely
call their mothers and almost never fly home
and when they did for only a few days at a time.

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
by James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

A Poem for Vipers
by John Wieners

I sit in Lees. At 11:40 PM with
Jimmy the pusher. He teaches me
Ju Ju. Hot on the table before us
shrimp foo yong, rice and mushroom
chow yuke. Up the street under the wheels
of a strange car is his stash–The ritual.
We make it. And have made it.
For months now together after midnight.
Soon I know the fuzz will
interrupt, will arrest Jimmy and
I shall be placed on probation. The poem
does not lie to us. We lie under
its law, alive in the glamour of this hour
able to enter into the sacred places
of his dark people, who carry secrets
glassed in their eyes and hide words
under the coats of their tongue.

A Red Wheelbarrow
by Jack Spicer

Rest and look at this goddamned wheelbarrow. Whatever
It is. Dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps. Not
For their significance.
For their significant. For being human
The signs escape you. You, who aren’t very bright
Are a signal for them. Not,
I mean, the dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps. Not
Their significance.

What Is Poetry
by John Ashbery

The medieval town, with frieze
Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow
That came when we wanted it to snow?
Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

Ideas, as in this poem? But we
Go back to them as to a wife, leaving

The mistress we desire? Now they
Will have to believe it

As we believed it. In school
All the thought got combed out:

What was left was like a field.
Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.

Now open them on a thin vertical path.
It might give us–what?–some flowers soon?

Paradoxes and Oxymorons
by John Ashbery

This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
This poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What’s a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there.
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softely down beside you. The poem is you.

Red Shift
by Ted Berrigan

Here I am at 8:08 p.m. indefinable ample rhythmic frame
The air is biting, February, fierce arabesques
—-on the way to tree in winter streetscape
I drink some American poison liquid air which bubbles
—-and smoke to have character and to lean
In. The streets look for Allen, Frank, or me, Allen
—-is a movie, Frank disappearing in the air, it’s
Heavy with that lightness, heavy on me, I heave
—-through it, them, as
The Calvados is being sipped on Long island now
—-twenty years almost ago, and the man smoking
Is looking at the smilingly attentive woman, & telling.
Who would have thought that I’d be here, nothing
—-wrapped up, nothing buried, everything
Love, children, hundreds of them, money, marriage-
—-ethics, a politics of grace,
Up in the air, swirling, burning even or still, now
—-more than ever before?
Not that practically a boy, serious in corduroy car coat
—-eyes penetrating the winter twilight at 6th
& Bowery in 1961. Not that pretty girl, nineteen, who was
—-going to have to go, careening into middle-age so,
To burn, & to burn more fiercely than even she could imagine
—-so to go. Not that painter who from very first meeting
I would never & never will leave alone until we both vanish
—-into the thin air we signed up for & so demanded
To breathe & who will never leave me, not for sex, nor politics
—-nor even for stupid permanent estrangement which is
Only our human lot & means nothing. No, not him.
There’s a song, “California Dreaming”, but no, I won’t do that
I am 43. When will I die? I will never die, I will live
To be 110, & I will never go away, & you will never escape from me
—-who am always & only a ghost, despite this frame, Spirit
Who lives only to nag.
I’m only pronouns, & I am all of them, & I didn’t ask for this
—-You did
I came into your life to change it & it did so & now nothing
—-will ever change
That, and that’s that.
Alone & crowded, unhappy fate, nevertheless
—-I slip softly into the air
The world’s furious song flows through my costume.

Routine Disruption
by Kenward Elmslie

going way back to dusty road
before cars, silent walkers

come to junction
avoidance of junction

run towards woods
green field gives way

hole, plummet into it,
new universe

exciting freshness and strangeness
the strains don’t apply here

accidentally reborn
head home

Abortion
by Ai

Coming home, I find you still in bed,
but when I pull back the blanket,
I see your stomach is flat as an iron.
You’ve done it, as you warned me you would
and left the fetus wrapped in wax paper
for me to look at. My son.
Woman, loving you no matter what you do,
what can I say, except that I’ve heard
the poor have no children, just small people
and there is room only for one man in this house.

Song
by Frank O’Hara

I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life

mud clambers up the trellis of my nerves
must lovers of Eros end up with Venus
muss es sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you

how I hate disease, it’s like worrying
that comes true
and it simply must not be able to happen

in a world where you are possible
my love
nothing can go wrong for us, tell me

Meditations In An Emergency
by Frank O’Hara

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious
as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
(and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable
list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with
which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else
for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too,
don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of
pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of
perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the
confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes–I can’t
even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there’s a subway
handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not
totally _regret_ life. It is more important to affirm the
least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and
even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing?
Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I’m
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven.
Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best
discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness
which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a
legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that holds you in the
bosom of another and I’m always springing forth from it like
the lotus–the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must
not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the
filth of life away,” yes, even in the heart, where the filth is
pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my
will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in
that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I
admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a
final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

“Fanny Brown is run away–scampered off with a Cornet of Horse;
I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She
has vexed me by this exploit a little too.–Poor silly
Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.–I wish She had a
good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.”–Mrs. Thrale

I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my
dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from
the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where
you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot
ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in
the lock and the knob turns.
—-

*

p.s. Hey. Due either to my current bout of impetigo or something else, I’ve got swollen glands today and feel kind of crappy, so this p.s. isn’t going to be all that hot, sorry. ** Oscar B, It looks like the yays have won the day re: the photo. It’s a good one, I swear. Yury got you, him, and me tickets for the Gilbert Peyre thing tomorrow night. And, oh yeah, on the ‘Plein Air’ thing. Nice schedule. Let’s make a plan. ** Scunnard, The upskirt shot seems to be the hit. How about this one? And then there’s this one. ** Misanthrope, There were too many orgies going on during the hippie era, and I’ve always been a sexual rebel. Shit, well, I hope the test actually happened and went well yesterday. Please report. ** Changeling, Hey, man. We’re the same re: our respective novels, it sounds like. The most useful drug tool for me used to be ephedrine, which was mildish and didn’t eat you out that much, and you could it buy at any 7-11, but now it’s harder to come by than the serious stimulants. Summer doesn’t help, yeah, although I thought you said you liked the heat/ humidity combo. I’m really sorry to hear about the lyme disease. Even the relatively minor screwed up-ness of my immune system aka my swollen glands is a hell, so, yeah, I hope the doctors find some substance or something that’ll make you feel more soothed and solid. Thanks about my dad. He’s doing a little better the last two days. We’ll see. Oh, yeah, I’m really sorry to take so long to read and respond to your piece. I didn’t anticipate this weird malaise or whatever. I’ll do my best to get over there today and give myself the pleasure. ** Bollo, Painting, cool. Like acrylic or watercolor or oil or … ? If I was in the UK, I’d go to Dickens World. It’s in my top 8 or whatever theme parks to be conquered. ** David Ehrenstein, Hm, maybe it’s the same Albee boyfriend. I don’t know what happened to the one I knew. Maybe he was a fling. Thanks about the film stuff. Rowling would be a fool not to green light that Harry/Alain film you propose. Not to go all Ed Norton, but if I do agree to accept the role of Maldemort, Radcliffe’s out, nice fella though he is. ** Empty Frame, Hey! Welcome back! I’m sorry to hear you’ve been down. I’ve been in kind of a funk or something too. Maybe it was the theater stuff or the fucking insane heat in Avignon. I keep thinking that cooked too many brain cells or something. Maybe I’ll try your reading cure. An itchy red hand sucks. I don’t recommend it. Hope we both feel significantly better by … mm, what seems realistic … tomorrow? ** Bernard Welt, I have to admit that ‘et Dennis Cooper’ gave me a little thrill. Back when the film was supposed to be a short, I basically got paid car fare to do it, but now that it’s a feature, I’m getting paid 352 euros! Whoo-hoo! I’m thinking that playing Gandalf in the Hobbit movies is next for me. That’s what I’m thinking. ** Killer Luka, Back when I was meeting with the students in Avignon, there was a boy in one of the groups who was bedazzingly pretty, and I guess he must have spotted the bedazzlement in my eyes whenever they were looking in his vicinity, and, after the meeting was over, he came up, stood uncomfortably close to me, and said, ‘I think you are a very provocative man’ and then walked away. ** Alan, Ritalin, hm. Interesting. Maybe, if it’s around here. I think I might have woken up just a little bit when I was trying to work this morning, but I don’t want to jinx it like I hopefully didn’t jinx your novel. ** Tristam, Sorely, madam. ** Jax, Two years?! I’m going to forget you said that. Anyway, maybe my concentration has started easing back into play, or the very slight improvement was just some temporary side effect of my swollen glands. I eat pretty okay, and Yury hands me a pile of supplements and a smoothie every morning on his way out the door, so I guess I’m fighting back. Yeah, I think there’s a premiere and everything. I’ll take pix if I’m allowed to and don’t feel too dorky. Harlequin-related or any Jax news always does my heart good. ** Oscar, Oh, hey. Nooneisfun, sure, excellent, welcome back. Let’s see … Hm, very interesting project, the Laura Palmer. Sure, I’m game to participate, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be here when you’re planning to be here. Keep me informed. I’ll send you my cell number or, if I forget — kind of under the weather today — remind me. So, yeah, cool. See you ere long, I hope. ** Little foal, Hey. There was only one upside down ride. Well, there was also one that created the illusion of being upside down. A bunch of them got one pretty wet. But then you’d get dried out by the summer sun. It was almost kind of vaguely sensual. Having people close to you die really sucks in this really complicated way that’s kind of indescribable the way acid trips are. You’ll see someday, I guess. It’s really weird. Nice about your friend, and I bet he’ll understand your whys better than he does now. Oh, new poems, great. I’ll have to read them later due to the p.s. concentration stuff and also feeling a little too crappy at the moment. Everyone, speaking of poems, new poems by the amazing little foal are at our very lucky fingertips. Love to you, Darren. ** JW Veldhoen, You’ve escaped before. And now you have a ticket. A magic ticket. And tall trees aren’t prison bars. And the no drugs thing will be okay. Breaks are good for drugs. I feel strangely peaceful when I think about your visit to that place north and west of where you belong. That’s usually a good sign. ** Steevee, New members … that’s odd, isn’t it? Oh, it’s a collective kind of thing, right? I was think members ‘of an audience’. ** Ken Baumann, Mr, Ken! Dude, it won’t be too long before our names are sharing the marquees. Buddy movies, here we come. We can be like Harrison Ford and Shia LaBeouf only a million billion times better, and I’ll even play the LaBeouf part. Don’t you think? I saw Robert Patrick pogo and mosh like fucking crazy in the pit at a Germs show. He’s way cool. ** Catachrestic, Hey. Email, okay, I’ll go find it shortly. That post-graduation stuff probably sounds a lot more colorful and hence not as bad as it felt. Words are weird that way. The spooky house at Asterix was pretty weak, yeah, at least when you know what a spooky house can be, and I don’t think the French, who don’t even celebrate Halloween, for Christ’s sake, have a clue, and yet they make decent, nasty horror films sometimes, hm. Speaking of which, might you be in LA by October ‘cos I’ll be there at some point, and I’m always looking for spooky house-going buddies? ** Creative Massacre, Yeah, you sound better and better. Really awesome, pal. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, My internet is shitty again. Mornings used to be the speediest time. I think some new internet hog moved into the Recollets who’s a morning person like me. Using the internet here is like being the scraggly runt in a nest full of healthy baby birds. Her name is pronounced like the hot drink or like that little thing that holds golf balls. No, a novel break isn’t good idea unless I’m forced to. Anyway, I might be very slightly better this morning on that front maybe just maybe. You probably saw pix of impetigo when it’s really bad. I get really mild cases. It looks a circle of inflamed pimples without heads, which is bad enough, I guess. I’m pretty sure I’m invited to the premiere. I’ll probably get blinded by flashbulbs and stuff even. The bigger question is how many of my pals I can get into the premiere, if any. I just googled Magic Bullet. It’s a blender. I expected something, I don’t know, better given the name. Hm, I can’t remember ever being addicted to the feeling of clothes sliding on and off, but I can totally imagine how that could happen. One of life’s little pleasures, that gentle scraping, now that you mention it. I think I have, however, seen a desert scape in an ashtray. That sounds very familiar. My day: Uh, I put a Bandaid on my hand sores. Then I got kicked out by the room cleaners. I walked around, bought something, food, I guess. While I waiting to be allowed back into my room, the blog’s Bill showed up, and Oscar showed up, and we went to see this Edvard Munch show at this private museum on Place Madeline. It was a very good show. What a clever guy that Munch was. He really knew his stuff. So, that was good. Then we had pastries and coffee at Fauchon ‘cos it was practically next door. Lemon tart and double espresso, in my case. And we talked, visited, all that. Then Bill went off to enjoy Paris on his own, and O. and I went to our respective rooms, or I did at least. My hand itched and itched. I took off the Bandaid because I remembered that impetigo is supposed to get as much fresh air and sunlight as possible if you want it to go away. Tried to work on my novel, painful. Oh, I got this creepy email yesterday. Here, I’ll show you. This is it in its entirety: ‘I interviewed you once for Serpent’s Tail. You remain a sick fuck who needs killing slowly and painfully. And you’re easy to find. Once we take you you’ll never see daylight again’. It was from some guy named Mark Ramsden. Creepy, no? Anyway, I thought I’d put that out there in case I get killed mysteriously and the cops are looking for leads. My pal Joel texted me to say he found his passport, so now this Paris trip is back on, so, cool. I found out I’m about to get paid for my work on ‘TIHYWD’, and I’m almost totally broke, so that was a relief. By the time I went to bed, the glands in my neck were kind of swollen and painful. Sleeping didn’t help, but I did sleep when I wasn’t lying there trying not to itch my hand. I think those were the day’s highlights and/or low lights. And how was the combo of you and Thursday? ** Nb, I have motion sickness but roller coasters don’t set it off because I think they’re so short that motion sickness doesn’t have time to totally kick in. But I never ever ever ride rides that turn in circles. Now I really really really want to go to that Swedish Old West theme park. I don’t know how I lived this long, etc. Wow, thank you. LA is better Brooklyn, man, no matter what any brainwashed New Yorker tries to tell you. Oh, wow. A new and separate wow, I mean. Everyone, courtesy of nb, ‘Soul Dracula‘. I really think you should click that. ** Colin, Those ‘you are there’ roller coaster videos are really strange. I like them. They’re so weirdly clinical and listless or something. Yeah, send the chapbook wider. You know all the stories of how, like, whatever great book was rejected by 277 publishers before … etc. I think I’ve heard of ‘Gutter’. Is that possible? Yeah, I mean, I’d love a copy if you’re in it, and I’ll be more than happy to order it, if you tell me where. Thanks! ** Bill, You’re probably at CDG by now if not airborne. Anyway, yeah, it was really great to see you and hang out. Definitely. So, it’s that Cadiot piece. I might go anyway, ‘cos I want to check out IRCAM for sure. William Breuker: RIP, yeah, ugh. Oh, that sucks, Well, I hope you’re home soundly, and let me know. ** 曹初帆張武茜, You should redesign your site. It’s very late ’90s. ** Postitbreakup, Hey, man. The new therapist sounds like he’s really paying attention and working with you in a really good way so far, and that’s a huge plus. Actually, when I talked about the misconstruing thing, I wasn’t thinking or talking about you. Or not consciously, certainly. I was talking about others whom I don’t really want to talk about. Anyway, I know you sometimes say you think I hate you, and of course that’s absolutely not true, and it’s even really rare that you’ve ever annoyed me, and I wouldn’t even call it annoyance. Frustrated is more accurate. Anyway, don’t worry re: me or this place. We’re old friends, and friendship is a strong motherfucker, in my book at least. ** Marcus Whale, Hey. Writing more will do, man. Considering all the work you’re up to, more is a lot in any case. I’m just glad to hear it. My novel … in my dreams, I’ll have it finished by maybe the end of October, but I think that might be way optimistic. That’s my current goal. The end of the summer was my previous goal. I think Michael is still editing ‘Godland’. I think he made some rather drastic decision that it needed to be totally restructured. I’m waiting to have a look at the new version. Ha ha, my non-recommendation had a strange, subversive power, it seems. Then how about this: Whatever you do, don’t send me a million dollars. Best to you, man. ** Okay, that’s it for today, I think. Post-wise, I’m just throwing out some poems that shook my world back in the ’70s today for whatever that’s worth. See you tomorrow.

52 Comments

  1. Shane Le Vein

    This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. Shane Le Vein

    Hiya DC,

    That's a great post and I'm sure really comforting to many young writers around here to see you passed through that stage of imitating others before finding your own feet. I often think it's one of the most important stages that an artist goes through, imitating/challeging his/her heroes, almost needing to be able to equal ones mentor as a test of oneself before being able to move on to more personal and original forms of expression. It's like the ultimate showdown, and defeat is very often crushing.

    That weirdo mail you received! Fuck! Though I imagine it's not the first. I done a little check on that guy, and if it is him, it would seem more one of his fantasies than anything else. I really love how someone calls you a "sick fuck" and then admits they are willing to actually do the things you have only ever written about! I suppose from that we can gauge he is not on "tu" terms with Mensa.

    You take care DC and if needed put wing mirrors on your shoulders. It's much better to be safe…

    Shane. x

  3. Bill

    Hey Dennis, that *is* a creepy piece of email. Does that name even sound familiar? I hope it's just a stupid prank. Sorry to hear your hand is still bothering you.

    Man, flying out of CDG is an ordeal. But I got bumped from my flight, so I can try to get a ticket for Gilbert Peyre tonight, yay. Too bad you guys are going tomorrow. I love the James Tate poem, of course, and am saving the rest to read on the flight tomorrow.

    Bill

  4. Renaud Cerqueux

    Hi Dennis,

    thanks for sharing this. I really do not know much about poetry but it makes me want to readmore of it. I loved First Grade by Koertge. Have you read The Boogeyman? If yes, is it worth reading?

    R.

  5. Bernard Welt

    Wow. That was great. Thanks.
    That's all.

  6. DavidEhrenstein

    So great to wake up and read some of my favoirte poets first thing off.

    "This Dark Apartment" is SUCH A FUCKING MASTERPIECE!" So close to the very essence of my imagination I'm shocked Schuyler and I never met. But then I HAVE met Ashes and Ted Berrigan.

    "Meditations in an Emergency" has, as you know, been given a whole new life thanks to Mad Men.

  7. nb

    What a fucked up email. Also, your story to Killer Luka is great.

  8. Paul Curran

    Dennis, sorry to hear about your mid-summer lethargy. I've been pretty slack on my novel too. In the middle of Len's birthday week right now. He turned 3 on Monday, and his party is this Saturday. It's going to be about ten other kids and a pirate entertainer. My uncle's even flying down from Newcastle. He's only been on a plane once before and hasn't been to London since 1962. Beautiful collection today, thanks.

  9. dogboy

    Mr DC,i've had one hellish day and it's still not otver. firstly, the e-mail you got was a form of compliment, no? I mean i'd feel extremely complimented and proud to be threatened by anonymous sources. But thta's just me. also people are obviously tres pathetic.secondly, if you played Gandalf on Hobbit my friends would just die!Thirdly, the bedazzibgly pretty boy: Ha!I don't know hoe i'd react if i were you. Hot, though.
    Today i've been fnally been diagnosed with some degree anxiety disorder with depresive elements and psychosmonatic symptoms. The cow who was the neurologist that made this diagnosis said, and I quote" you made quite a mess of things" as if it was my fault about being so fucked-up and proceeded to prescribe Xanax and some antidepressant i've never heard of( i think it's major component is citalopram) without even letting me know what's wrong with me(except from the obvious fact that i've made a mess of my life, i don't know, is that a category enlisted in the DSM-IV?)so now i don't know if i'm just depressed, or extremely anxious or both or what. I don't usually talk about people i don't know that way but what a fucking bitch. Sorry if this all is completely irrelevant but if anyone has anything to share it'd be grand!(plus i'm supposed to stop drinking, drugging and all that stuff)I've never tried xanax. Is i like you're walking aorund with a lobotome or is fairly mild?
    ALSO I was wondering if you mr DC or anyone lese might now of any decent online/disatnt-learning creative writing college programs;i don't know if i have what it takes to write but i'd really love to find out someway. i think it would help me…um, heal?or whatver. writing is probably the best drug anyway. I'm reading Guyotat's Coma and already looks like an apocalypse to me.

    Take care y all and sorry for the HUuuuuGE post.
    DB

  10. Pilgarlic

    Dogboy, it would depend on the strength of the Xannax, prescribed, as far as how you'll feel. It CAN be lobotomatic, or, just relaxing. Drinking, as the label says, will intensify the effect. It can be quite addictive.The main thing with Xannax is don't take any other anti-depression / anxiety drugs, or, sleeping pills, with it, unless you consult your doctor. The common ingredient in Anna Nicole Smith, and Heath Ledger's toxic drug cocktails was Xannax. Just be careful, dude.
    Dennis, yeah, I'd be curious as to what prompted the cybercreep to throw out his troll bait, in this case. Did he view a play, or, just finish a novel, or, what ? I mean, filthy, perverted, sick fuck minds wanna know, yanno ? But, of course, like most trolls, he's, probably, harmless, and just likes to hideout on the computer, and spew hatred to make up for extremely small, and, underdeveloped genetalia.
    Beryl ate a whole bunch of overly ripe figs that had fallen on the ground at my mother's house, to no ill effect. My mom remarked"I hope it doesn't give him loose bowels!", and I did, too, as I had to be in a small car with him for four hours ! He must've thought he'd hit the jackpot, like a canine candy store.
    The figs are excellent, especially, stuffed with gorgonzola, and wrapped with procutto (sp?). The peaches are coming in, now, as well, and they are insanely ambrosial ! It almost makes the heat bearable.

  11. syreearmwellion

    i love reading poetry in the morning. these are all great, no sense seperating them. i started writing poetry because no one gave a shit really, far as i was concerned. i still feel that way. it was also the quickest way to find new voices, new people to be. as someone who drew a lot, poems made more sense then paragraphs. which were harder to conceptualize and see in my head. god i'm a terrible bore. sorry about the absen-t-ism. i found out dreamcast played burnt cds without any alterations to the console and i've been plowing through like 30 games. plus getting a page or two written before passing out. still keep up with the posts. just elsewhere, mentally.

  12. Sypha

    Dennis, I think you would make a killer Gandalf, if that helps.

    The first poet who probably made a difference to me was Baudelaire. We had to read his "Flowers of Evil" during my very first semester in college and it had a big impact on me. I think I discovered Plath around the same time. It's kind of embarrassing how little poetry I read, aside from Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Plath, Blake, and, more recently, the metaphysical poets.

    Thank God July is almost over. This has been the month from Hell. I can't wait until Fall. Creatively I'm at kind of a low point myself right now, but I'm working on a new bonus short story for "Grimoire" whilst I wait for the publisher to get back to me, and in the meanwhile I'm continuing to acquire documentation for my next novel, so at least I'm getting some work done.

  13. William Keckler

    I liked this post.

    Most of these poems are under my skin too. But R.K. is largely unknown to me. Everyone has lacunae I guess.

    Feel better, Dennis.

    It's July and hot here, so I prefer to find poems and ecstasy, rather than attempting to achieve it myself.

    For example, I found this on Oprah's site.

    FOUND ECSTATIC POEM #2

    I was a
    "normal" German woman, very materialistic, non-spiritual. I didn't
    care about nature but more about my appearance, men, sex and money. I didn't
    even know that I was spiritually dead! I had mirrors everywhere and identified
    with this backwards/reversed/negative image all my life until a French-Canadian
    man showed me "a white dot" in the mirror and then I felt like
    covering up my mirrors in my house in Mexico, where I live now. Wow! The negative
    image (the optical illusion of consciousness – Eckhart quotes Albert Einstein
    on page 28!) and the "normal" feeling of anxiety in my stomach
    disappeared at once! And I realized it wasn't me! I am not fear! I am not this
    image I am Love! I realized that the mirror keeps the illusion of a separate
    self alive! Remember, the ego lives on identification and separateness!

  14. Changeling

    i liked the poems – thank you – maybe the john ashbery the best – not sure. i'm trying to read more poetry – someone gave me a copy of richard siken's book 'crush' that i'm liking – ha – i just noticed you liking it also, on the back.

    yeh i'm contradicting myself about summer – i don't know, i like the idea maybe? i think it's like new years eve or a birthday or something with some kind of enhanced expectation of enjoyment that leaves you kind of damp & deflated in the reality

    ephedrine is nice – i had it lots in thailand where the pharmacies are like some sweetshop dream of what i imagine them to be here before the 20th century or something – it's a little too clean though? like – i don't know – i like the dirty gritty feel of some truly synthetic chemical … i'm such a fucking hypocrite – like i'll only eat organic yoghurt.

    if your psycho email was from Mark Ramsden – that's kind of odd. Isn't he some fetish writer/ psycho-sexual therapist? seems like a fairly unorthadox therapeutic method he's got there.

    I hope you feel well soon.

    dogboy: your doctor sounds like a complete fuck – like one my good friend saw, berated him all the time for not saying anything then when he gave in and told him something the dr replies "you don't have to make up stuff to try and shock me you know?"
    someone in my house who knows more about this stuff says that they not supposed to prescribe xanax in conjunction with anything else and not to people who use alcohol and other drugs. i only ever took it to relax off of other stuff – it doesn't make you feel lobotomised – jus a little dreamy, floppy and absent minded.

  15. Killer Luka

    😮

  16. Killer Luka

    This comment has been removed by the author.

  17. steevee

    Sorry about the death threat. Do you know what the Serpent's Tail interview Mark mentioned was? I hope he's just a troll.

    I hope your impetigo gets better. Can you afford to see a doctor if it doesn't?

  18. kier

    mark ramsden

  19. Memoirs of a Heroinhead

    Hey Kier,

    Yeah, that's the kind of stuff I found on him (if it was actually him who sent the mail). If it was, then as i say i think it's more a fantasy than a real threat. I also think he must be insanely jealous of Dc's work and probably wishes he WAS DC! x

    @ Dennis: If he lives in London I could quite easily arrange that someone throws a copy of your latest book through his window… Just give the word. x

  20. JW Veldhoen

    Shit, this is the second time since I've known you that you've made me cry for your wonderfulness. BIG HUG.

  21. Christopher/Mark

    "This Dark Apartment" is one of those things that I read and then close my eyes and weep from within.

    Jimmy Schuyler was a lovely man and I was very happy to have known him via mutual friends on and off for several years.

    Dennis I think Jonathan Thomas must have been the b/f of Edward's you knew – they were together for about twenty years until he died of liver cancer in 2005 – a Canadian-born sculptor and painter and a sweetheart.

    It looks like I won't be coing to Paris in November as they are performing at the Theatre de La Ville which they all know well – they only let me go as it were if its a new or strange place or a long-time-ago revival and as you know we just did ROARATORIO in Los Angeles. But you never know. I wanted them to do it in the Tuileries or under the Eiffel Tower.

  22. little foal

    hey dennis, firstly, that e-mail is fucking horrible. i'm thinking of what the journalist johann hari said in an interview, that "I take [death threats] seriously in that I always forward them to the police, but generally I take the view that if someone is going to kill me, they’re not going to e-mail me in advance." which makes sense, i reckon. still, if you need any, y'know, help, i'm totally up for being part of a protection squad, maybe a bunch of other d.l.s are up for it too? but ummm, i wanna be able to wear a ninja outfit, and i'm going to need snacks as well. plus, ninja training. i'm beginning to feel maybe it'd be better if i do stuff in a desk work capacity?

    i feel kind of yuck too, since there's an ulcer thing in my mouth/throat, near my tonsils. i think what happened is that when i had glandular fever ages and ages ago it made my throat weak (it's okay folks, srsly, dr darren's here, phd in reading the adverse effects bits in the booklets that come with medication) and every time i get sick my throat succumbs to the badness more intensely than other parts of me. anyway, yeah, the stuff yury hands you has got to help. feel better, man.

    i'm with nb, i really liked your story to killer luka. a poet came to my secondary school one time, but i guess i didn't bedazzle him much, at sixteen my attachment to any system of personal care was messed up, what with its, ummm, non-existence and everything. but i think this guy in my english class liked me. he touched my leg one time and he hugged me a lot, and it went beyond the dumbass ironic hugging that guys used to do that smelled of queer hatred.

    anytime a person suggested he was gay he got really nervous and his eyebrows did this funny twitchy thing. and one time in the lecture theatre he began to, like, feel my butt with his feet (there was a space between the seat of my chair and the back) and this other guy was like 'ummm i think you like doing that to him' and he became really nervous and embarrassed. another time a girl in class suggested to him that he was in a relationship with his girlfriend to cover up his sexuality and he became really nervous and embarrassed then too. i guess i'm saying this cuz his maybe liking me was the nearest i got to anything bonerific happening to me in secondary school. cuz i wasn't out, i didn't respond to the stuff he did. sometimes i think, would i have been able to cope with recon, manhunt etc if i'd known about them back then.

    thank you so much for putting the link to the poems in the p.s., and whenever you get around to reading them is totally cool. and i really really want to experience getting wet and then un-wet again in a theme park! dammit, my theme park experiences kind of don't exist *sniffles*

    i'm good. *puts on 'rusholme ruffians'* i'm good.

    love to you too,

    darren
    xoxo

  23. Killer Luka

    HOLY FUCKING SHIT Dennis,
    I have just been majorly traumatized today and you're eloquent and knowing the the ways of the trauma so..
    and i gotta tell everyone that exists (which includes you) so I don't freak out.
    ok so…
    i was having a cigarette in the (fenceless) backyard bout an hour and a half ago when this tiny emaciated kitten comes tottering by.
    I was like dude, that does not look like someone cares for it. It tried to run from me and was all weak. I picked it up and I was like, "hi little baby kitt- HOLY FUCK" – saw a huge, gaping festering deep fucking wound in its neck crawling with maggots and ants and lice. it eggs all over its fur and it had an eye infection and was mewing and stank like shit – holy fuck so I wrapped it in a towel and put it in a box and was panicking. So the humane society would not take it cus they are full so i called the police for animal control and the cop came out and looked at it and said…THE FUCKING rugged COP SAID -"wow this is the worst I have ever seen." etc. so he took the kitten away to probably be put down. jesus christ. i have seen animals in a bad way in mexico and africa but this was just like whamo
    ok i am done i am going to bed for a week. 🙁
    self: think badazzling boy, not rotted kitten.

  24. Killer Luka

    ok that was the most disgusting thing i have ever seen with my actual eyes…trumps that patient of my father's i saw when i was little who tried to blow his brains out but just shot his face off or in Dakar that leper who grabbed me or in Dakar, those deformed people on the street who pull themselves along the sidewalk on cardboard with flip flops taped to their hands or cleaning my grandmother's diarrhea off the carpet…combined.
    ok I am ok, just shaking…i'm done.

    love the poetry…forgot to say that.

  25. Scunnard

    Oh yes, those are great. I want a giant zeus statue to watch over all of my rollercoaster rides…

  26. Chris Goode

    Hey Dennis, hey all —

    Wonderful selection of poems today, D. Always fascinating to trace back like this, though also it occurs to me that I know several poets who'd cite O'Hara and Wieners and Ashbery and Kenward Elmslie as key to their development but don't write anything like you. Massively obvious, of course: but, in a way, an obviousness worth stating. Influence is so complicated.

    Just saw tonight an interesting interview with my friend the poet Keston Sutherland, who answers a question on "influences" by speaking about his more concerted attempts to engage with and enter into conversation with particular writers at different times. So, not influence as a passive process of absorption and enthusiasm, but as a kind of record of much more active attempts to draw close to certain figures in order to work specific stuff out. I really recognize that and I guess you would too?

    Thrilled to note from his web site that poor old Mark Ramsden with his creepy murderous email is the same Mark Ramsden who played saxophone on Tom Robinson's "War Baby" — one of my favourite mainstream records of the early 80s. I wonder if that's him at the start of the video, or whether they got someone from central casting to stand around looking like he was playing the saxophone. All very peculiar. I mean I'm sorry about the death threat element but the whole thing's kind of cheered me up…

    Probably won't get back here again before it happens, so please excuse a little plug: if anyone's in Edinburgh for the festival next month, or in Edinburgh not for the festival but looking for something to do nonetheless, I'm performing in The Author by Tim Crouch at the Traverse, all through August. Look! It's here! I think I can legitimately say, given that I didn't write it, that it's a fucking awesome play, & a very exciting and enlarging experience for me.

    Lots more to say if I were thinking straight, but I'm not, so I won't.

    love to all
    xx

  27. _Black_Acrylic

    @ Dennis, I hope the impetigo (hope I've spelled that right) is easing off a little. The Man of Jasmine by Unica Zürn has been fairly hard work, being about her bouts of mental illness, but worthy all the same and thoroughly recommended.

    I finished editing the Whitehouse karaoke video today and I'm pleased with the results. The audio still needs work, and I'm hoping that a friend can fill in for the spoken-word Bennett role, but it may just be shaping up to be something unique. The deadline's not til mid-August and I'm glad to have spent my week off productively.

    @ Pilgarlic, your fig description makes me hungry and envious x

  28. steevee

    Kier–Thanks for the Ramsden link.

    I saw that Anne Rice has abandoned the Catholic church, although not her faith in Jesus, over its anti-gay and anti-woman policies. She never was much of a writer, but this is heartening.

  29. Bill

    Just got back from Gilbert Peyre. I suggest getting seats in the first 3 rows; there are lots of little things to see.

    Bill

  30. Jeff

    This comment has been removed by the author.

  31. Jax

    That's such a great Avignon story, Dennis. Yeah, I should have known Yury looks after you pretty well. Sounds like general run-downness to me which will pass soon.

    Watched the strangest film – 'There Will Be Blood', Daniel Day Lewis won an Ocsar in it, 2007? Very long.

    Take care

  32. Misanthrope

    Luka, Yeah, this is the season when cats breed and have all these litters that no one knows what to do with or wants anything to do with, so the shelters fill up and lots of kitties get slaughtered. Pretty fucked up, eh?

    Dennis, Did you know that when Rimbaud would write and find himself struggling a bit that he'd look up into the heavens and scream? I saw it in a movie…hehehe.

    My mom finally got that test done. But she's so stupid sometimes. She really doesn't know what's going on. She thinks she might be okayed for the gall bladder surgery. And the doctor, she thinks, said something about her aorta and three 'leaky' valves to be taken care of later. She's so bad in social situations. She doesn't hear half of what people say and doesn't remember half of that. All nerves. I should've gone with her. But I'm getting her to call her doctors today, ask specific questions, and get answers. It's like I'm the parent and she the child sometimes.

    Hmm, that email. I can't imagine it's the same guy who writes the fetish stuff, has the genital piercings, and plays the saxophone. If it is, he's probably just putting you on. And I agree with Memoirs, it sounds like a ton of professional jealousy. All that being said, I wish he lived in Maryland. Or that I was in England right now.

  33. Bernard Welt

    Since I doubt you're going to go to a doctor: I just thought I'd mention that impetigo is so uncommon among adults (who don't teach school or coach sports) that it's generally followed up with some attempt to determine where it came from.
    You should post a picture of your skin so we can all see, but meanwhile, has anyone ever suggested that you have had psoriasis or eczema? In any case, the best response to that would be a little over-the-counter hydrocortisone cream (and keeping it clean and not messing with it).

  34. statictick

    I was trying to post early enough to not feel like I was slighting on comments, but I'm gonna fuck that up.

    The Dreadful Flying Glove: I'd heard of Annette Peacock, but never accessed her work. Thank you for the education. I love the 'appreciation network' that this blog fosters. Bow, dude.

    Dennis: The Sandcastles made my very malleable brain go into college mode, and apply amorphous feelings to the images. I wanted to process them as Process Art (that sounds fucking awful), but I guess it's the hands-and-whatnot-in-the-sand feel. Damn college. Ignore the caps.

    Gotta get to the poems today.

    I saw Taqwacore last night and returned home, walking through 90 degree weather with storms and lightening, etc… It's a pretty good documentary of American Islam Punk. I could argue that it needed more of the final show in Lehore (Pakistan at that time, and who knows what now), where the street people and the rich kids converged on the top of a blown-out building that overlooked a beautiful (and menacing) Mosque, and the red-light district all at once. The people came up to see what was up. It contained all the anger, fervor, disillusion, deception, joy and contradiction that makes punk so promising and so fun, and so flawed and charming.

    And, D., best to you regarding your Dad and your novel. That's hard. My heart, dude.

    N.

  35. DavidEhrenstein

    A day late and a dollar short, Ms. Rice

  36. Todd Colby

    what a great list of poems.

  37. Creative Massacre

    Dennis – I really enjoyed today post. I've been lacking on poetry as of late, I don't know really cause I love it.

    Yeah, each day I feel more and more well.

    Oh.. have you been catching any wrestling lately? WWE actually has Bret Hart wrestling… AGAIN. He looks horrible dude. Luckily, I think we've seen the end of Hulk Hogan wrestling, I'm not sure about Ric Flair. I just wish all these guys from the 80's would just give it up already. You know?

  38. nb

    Thanks for this list Dennis. Who was the first you read and how'd you find him/her?

    little foal, I had a friend I used to 'wrestle' with in middle school who would pen me down and hold me there for hours (okay, maybe an hour) and do that spit-dribble thing. He had to have, you know, felt it. Sadly nothing ever happened and now he's married and a Iraq vet and sort of fat and not really attractive. So it goes.

  39. JoeM

    Misa, for some reason I can't get through to AOL so here's my unmissable reply to your last:

    I don't think Obama's 'just another politician'. I think he's way more intelligent than the last few and I really think he wants to change things fundamentally for the better – for all of us and especially blacks gays etc. But he's hampered by the Repubs – in government and in the Media.

    The Media is so important: the only Jew to get invited to Mad Mel's pre-screening of The Passion was Drudge – a closeted right wing self-hating gay.

    So what's the Mom latest?

  40. inthemostpeculiarway

    Killer Luka, that's a terrible story. I'm sorry you had to see that. I just hugged my cat a little and she gave me a weird look and ran away, but I felt better.

    Hey Dennis,

    I like most of these poems. The endings to Lying in a Hammock… and This Dark Apartment actually kind of hurt, in a way. And Abortion's just depressing and I love the line in Meditations in An Emergency about blue eyes.

    Yeah, I think I did see the pictures of it whenever it's really bad.

    I hope the novel went better, today, of course. Even a little better is better than nothing, right?

    Oh, blinded by flashing lights and everything?! That sounds amazing. I've never wanted to be a celebrity but always wanted the treatment, which is how I think most people feel.

    Yeah, the Magic Bullet's just a blender, but that infomerical is brilliant! There is a bullet that's a mini vibrator. A few years ago a woman passed out in the grocery store because she had it on and couldn't moan or anything, clearly, so it just got too much for her. That was probably a publicity stunt but it's a good story.

    I'm glad you enjoyed the show with your companions.

    That is a very disturbing email, yes. It's strange, it's not like I disassociate you from your workbut I don't know, you just seem so constantly nice and non evil that the idea of somebody wanting to kill you is sort of surprising. And the sick fuck part bothers me more than the rest of it. You may write about sad boys being brutally dismembered after sex, but you're not a sick fuck.

    I hope Joel's Paris trip is fun, whenever he gets there.

    Can you afford to blow the money on something totally frivolous? That's always fun.

    I'm sorry about your swollen neck glands. Do you know what's wrong yet?

    My Thursday:

    Well it was one of 'those' days. A lot of sitting off into space and staring and smoking and deciding I smoke too much so I'm going to make an effort to quit, dammit! but tomorrow, maybe, or the next day and things like that.

    I read a lot of Edie: American Girl and that was pretty nice. She's just been born but for some reason I love reading about fucked up families, or watching movies about fucked up families. Not sure why. That is partly why I'm sure I'll like Ivy Compton-Burnett, though. She writes about fucked up families right? Although really, is there a normal family anymore? I don't know. I'm rambling, sort of. Oh well. The book is good so far. Can't wait until she starts all the drug abuse! Exciting times ahead!

    Took a bath and I think I'm going to take another one later. I did realize how much calmer my ceiling looks underwater, though. A calm ceiling is the answer to a happy home.

    No friends today and they're normally the cause of all of the talk and fun stuff on here, so dammit.

    Uh.. movie news? Haven't done that in a while.

    Aja's remaking Maniac, I really want to see Howl, del Toro's involved with a production of Pinochio with music by Nick Cave and still working on At the Mountains of Madness, oh! and did I tell you about Brad Pitt in World War Z? Maybe. If not you've heard about it, surely.

    Well that's about it, really. I may write a review but in this mood it's going to turn out badly. Oh well. I'll just rewrite/rewatch if that's the case.

    How was your day?

  41. inthemostpeculiarway

    Oh! and I totally forgot the best line from the Jersey Shore premiere:

    "I feel like a pilgrim from the freakin' 20's washing these clothes in the sink!" – Snooki

  42. JoeM

    Oh and poetry.

    I used to hate poetry but I loved poetic prose. So I found that if I bunched up the poetry, took away the line breaks, I appreciated it so much more.

    But now I find myself parsing prose to poetry: line-breaking etc.

    I liked these lines:

    Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly

    Blowing like a leaf in green shadow

  43. JW Veldhoen

    accidentally reborn
    head home
    is whoa, wow. Ummmm.

    I am. A.. that is it is 2:03 so we won't we won't kill ourselves or we could just call Dustin and bug him, but it is too late for that.
    We talked all night, looking at Jersey. After pink lemonade that tasted like such a good idea. And we talked about evil, time, the cosmos, why our hair curls like that, my mouth is the shade, for sisters, brothers, lovers.

    True story.

  44. l@rstonovich

    D-

    These poems are fucking beautiful. I'm so dreadfully under-read in the poetry dept. One day I'm gonna go on a bender.

    Reading the Wowee Zowee 33 1/3rd. Pavement in Sept. Got my GBV tix for Oct. tonite. 1995 revisited. I just looked at "1995" and thought "that's only 5 years ago."
    That was the year I moved to Portland, saw Wowee Zowee tour. Have a tape of the show, hopefully somewhere in the basement, buddy's dad just gave him a mini-DAT and he recorded it. He coughed a lot.

    I started playing the Banjo again, learning claw hammer. Then I got these weird hives on my hands and now I'm paranoid I have a nickel allergy. I want to play but I'm afraid. One thing after another.

    Much love captain.
    -L

  45. alan

    Dennis, It was thanks to you that I ordered Ron Koertge’s out-of-print collection and have been a fan ever since. I’ve actually had two of these three on my blog.

    I’m pretty sure that email was just its author’s graceless version of “Je crois que vous etes un homme tres provocatif.”

    Oh, so you’re coming in October now?

  46. Killer Luka

    yeah the whole "destruction of beauty and youth thing" goes with the kitten who was just beautiful, beautiful face, sharp green eyes (the one that wasn't infected), white whiskers…with a hole in its neck to the bone churning with amber beads that glistened (ants) flanked with eggs that looked like sesame seeds with a maggot here and there. I was holding The Beautiful Youth as it rotted right in front of me in my hands. I am still feeling fucking traumatized but also childish and pathetic.

    Ramsden sounds like a total cockblocker. He is probably reading this blog right now while rubbing his various tacky book covers.

    get better, D. 🙁

  47. Bollo

    Hi Dennis
    thetre gonna be mostly acyrlic and ink paintings so not to far from the darwings but much simpler if thats possible: )
    Dickens world looks great! meet a friend last night whos moving to london and she was appling fro a job in the sherlock holmes live museum of show house. she'd be the maid if she got it and boy would she love it!.
    the show opened last night, really good fun and suoer packed to the uncomfortable level dieing heat.
    hope your feeling better.

  48. math

    yo. i am really really really really fucking exhausted. i spent pretty much all of july partying on an average of 2-3 hours of sleep, and quite unsurprisingly this takes its toll. i seriously just slept for over 24 hours [!] and am STILL worn the fuck out. i am about to go straight to bed, but here's somethings:

    i loved parc d'asterix day more than words could say, such beauty

    today's post is insanely awesome, so totally up my alley. thank you dennis. i'm in no mind to read it right now, but it's first on the agenda with tomorrow's morning coffee and drugs [no no no not heroin, i have a job interview for fuck's safe].

    annnnd.. so yea i totally thought the 2nd apple interview went so completely shitty! but, late this afternoon i got the call for the 3rd and final interview. it is tomorrow. i am enthused and hopeful to say the least.

    that's it for now; sorry to have skipped so many days' worth of comments. will be back on track tomorrow. if i missed any comments directed at me, please give me a reheadsup!

    DENNIS i am thinking of you always

    love always, m+

  49. Jeff

    Dennis,

    This morning I started off writing a long comment that seemed kind of good making fun of the email Mark Ramsden sent you, but I didn't post it. Then I wrote a shorter comment that wasn't bad, and didn't post that either. Finally I wrote a bad comment and posted it. Then I deleted it because I realized I spelled a word wrong. I don't do mockery well.

    Right now I just want to say that I love you, and to hell with the people who want to hurt you.

  50. Oscar B.

    I still haven't read these but I will today.
    Cool Dennis, I'll talk to you a little bit later then, what time does the thing start?

  51. someone hit my parked car

    Ohooo ÅŸi încă ce afacere… plus de asta sunt ÅŸi foarte bineveniÅ£i acolo că e un pic peste mână să îţi poÅ£i procura râme roÅŸii, de pildă, de la cea mai apropiată groapă de gunoi animalier…

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