The extravagantly talented Rebecca Loudon, whose poems I have admired for literal years and whose life has been a snorting stampede of poetic success lately, has arrived at Wallace Stevens's birthday party dressed as a red-eyed elder, though the elder part is hardly believable, since her overawing hotness is so apparent under the glow of her convincingly reddened eyes and I cannot but long to fly home to her bosom instead of Abraham's after my own mootable death. See, poetry can replace religion! I loved this poem so much when I was a kid, before I fully understood that it was about old men getting boners for nasty reasons. Needless to say, I love it even more now.
4 comments:
Holy crap you crack me up.
Whose poems I have admired since I was three.
Hahahhahahaaa.
As you can see, photoshop and I have never before crossed ways.
xoxo
I'm not even ashamed to admit that there is a line in a poem in Radish King that reads:
May I watch you bathe?
And then there's some crap about a prickly pear (almost a quince!) and tonguing Scarlatti into her mouth.
I don't know why I do the things I do but now I suspect it was an early association with Wallace Stevens that might have done it.
p.s. I have a terrible fear that during my concert tomorrow I'm going to think of you longing to fly home to her bosom instead of Abraham's and then I will start snorting and coughing and I will disrupt everything and disgrace myself as a musician and then be booted out of the orchestra forever.
Answer: Yes! Yes, you may watch us ALL bathe. I, for one, pumice my heels in a special way that I think may interest you.
As for the concert, if people cannot handle a little snorting from musicians once in a while then what is the world coming to?
I cannot wait to read Radish King in its tongue-bathing entirety!
Slammin' bod!
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