I was thinking about New Orleans today.
My New Orleans, whose streets and alleys
are as personal and intimate to me as
a pussy stroke.
Far away from the blaze of Bourbon
where the neon children live their
lives that burn bright, flicker, then die.
Away from the tourist traps where
Black men are forced to shuck and jive
for those who are simultaneously lily
White and scaly with sunburn, and who
are all too pleased to press a dollar
in a palm that’s butter mellow or
burnt sienna to ease their consciences
of what their granddaddies did and what
their grandbabies will continue to do.
Far, far outside the districts where the
night air is weighted differently; the sound
of the Zydeco creeping on the wind like a
ghost in the alleyways. Where the slow
drawl of, ‘how you doin’ ‘chere?’ is as
satisfying as the crunch of new gravel
under the heel of my boot; good for the
ear and the Soul. Where the familiar
smell of smoke, stale beer and sawdust
floors feel like home, and I can dance,
and dance,
and dance.
Landscapes of You & Me | Reviews that Suck
David and I met on Twitter – not, actually, through poetry posts but – through an argument I was having with some shit-head bible banger that was trying to convince people that they were right in their interpretation of Scripture. (Author’s Note: they weren’t.) I noticed he liked Bukowski, and had some Catholic Worker references on his profile so, of course, we buddied up.
Even though I called for people to pimp their chaps, David never did. It was like pulling fucking teeth for him to link me some shit to read. Finally, after much harassing he shot me the link to his chap Landscapes of You and Me.
Book Details
- 5 x 8 in dimension.
- 47 pages.
- $10.44 price point.
- Printed with Alien Buddha Press.
- Cover art by Red Focks
- Standard cardstock cover and glue binding — which did not crack.
- Standard 20 lb weight paper, and 10 Garamond font (assuming).
This is another chap printed on Amazon publishing – through a press, not self-pressed – and I’ve described the cover, paper, print, and binding quality enough times that ya’ll know the fucking drill.
Description
The back of the book states that this is collection of love poems with some Taco Bell references and that I will want to drunk text my ex after reading it. (Incidentally, I’d really look into that … I’m guessing NO ONE wants to see my ass after eating Taco Bell, just sayin’.)
Review
Having read some of David’s work in Outcast Press’ inaugural issue I was expecting something much different than what I got – something a little darker, a little crunchier. Needless to say, this collection came out of left field for me.
Reading it is like being in the mind of a caffeinated toddler; a hyper-active rambling that stretches on into the unforeseeable future which gets slightly more absurd as you go on. And that is exactly its charm.
Reading this filled me with a sense of nostalgia; a sort of hazy, teenage-summer-love sweetness that’s awash with the pinks and oranges of sunsets, but tinged blue at its edges with a sort of bittersweet loss. It brings me back to memories of days spent by the pool or the lake, the electric feeling of simply being close to the person you had a mega-crush on and that sense of subconscious urgency to memorize everything about the person before they move back home for the summer.
Overall, I liked the collection. I didn’t LOVE it – it wasn’t earthshattering, ground breaking, stomp-your-feet-and-clap-your-hands-for-this-pussy kind of excellent. But it’s good.
Given that I’ve seen David’s pieces in Outcast, as well as talked about his other pieces in private I want to say this: David, trust yourself and your writing — and take a risk with the wild shit. I’m still waiting for that pissing poem, brother.
Biology | Poems that Suck
I want you to cum inside of me and say 'fuck it' to the consequences because the idea of your biology and my own - of cell and tissue, swirling strands of DNA co-mingling inside my body has become the height of romance.
Soul Collector | Chap Review
I “bumped into” Duvay Knox on Twitter one night as he was joking back and forth with Stephen J. Gold about buying panties on the internet — of course I had to crack a joke, cuz… it’s me. I got to reading his tweets and fell in love with his humor and his style (have you seen his Twitter icon? It oozes sex and a “I don’t give FUCK” kinda style). When I saw that he had a book coming out, I snapped that little shit up ASAP.
I want to start by saying that I’ve never read a pulp / pulp-noir book in my life. This one is my first; I bought it because Duvay is dope as hell and because the premise of the book tickled my pussy in the right way. I’m not familiar with the genre, so I don’t know how they’re supposed to be written –so, cut me a little slack if I don’t catch all the fine details.
Book Description
I recognize these can be a little long/tedious for some folks, so I’m going to start bulleting this section for ease of reading (if you’re interested in that kind of thing).
- 4.25 x 7 inches in dimension
- Approximately 156 pages
- Cream colored, (appx.) 20lb weight paper
- 12pt Times New Roman font (estimation)
- Matte covers printed on cardstock
- Glue binding which didn’t crack under my fuckery — no pages lost.
I was surprised by the dimensions of the book – I was expecting a standard 5 x 8 – but, in all honesty, I’m really charmed by it. It feels so nice in my hands, and was easy to shove into my purse and take it with me wherever the hell I was going.
Contents/Summary
Soul Collector tells the goings-on of Sippian, a young man who died by violence, and assumes the role of Death when he descends to hell. The story follows Sippian through all the fun and fuckery of his rise to the top and the challenges he faces.
Review
I want to begin by addressing the obvious; the formatting errors.
Right around Chapter 9, something happened and the Chapter titles got all fucked up – some of them ending up at the bottom of the previous page, which jacks up the formatting of the rest of the book. Duvay has addressed this, and it’s been fixed — and is sending out free copies of the corrected version to all who have bought the fucked copy.
What do I think about it? Well, to begin with editing and layout formatting is a BRUTAL and tedious job. We’re human, we all fuck up and sometimes after looking at a manuscript for 100 hours, shit just happens. The fuckup doesn’t take away from the story in anyway — it just one of those weird-ass things that happens. Final thoughts on it: Seems to me I got a first edition copy of Soul Collector that’s gonna be worth some coin in the future!
Second: The book is dialogue driven. There’s very little, to no, description of people, surroundings, places, things, moods, etc. I’m not sure if that’s a hallmark of pulp / pulp noir or not, to be fair and honest. I do know that I really like descriptions, because it drives me further into the story.
THAT BEING SAID — I didn’t even notice this until my second read through of the book! The story-telling that happens through dialogue is so rich and engaging that it doesn’t fucking matter if there’s descriptions.
Soul Collector is a fast-paced, funny as fuck, SUPER engaging, well written story with twists that will make your head snap sideways. I loved this so much, and my ONLY complaint is that there wasn’t more to read… that cliff-hanger… THAT CLIFF-HANGER, THO!!!!! I need more. Like… NOW.
I cannot WAIT until Pussy Detective comes out with Clash Books in December, I’m gonna snap that fucker RIGHT up.
If this is your bag — and it should be your bag — make sure to support the author and BUY THE SHIT
Birthday Blues | Musings that Suck
So…
I turned 38 last Thursday…. and it hit pretty hard.
I’ve been questioning doing my PhD – something that I’ve been adamant about doing since I began going back to school 10 years ago – but in the last year I’ve begun to question it…. and, for me, that indicates something’s “wrong.”
I haven’t thought much about it, not until the night of my birthday when I realized that I’m questioning it because I’ve hit mid life (let’s be real, few people live to 100 so 38 and 40 is about middle aged).
I knew this because of the questions I was asking myself; not whether I am capable of the coursework and research (I very much am) but whether I want to spend another five years of my life in school and whether it will give me any further edge in my field.
I can feel it.. ya know? Feel that I’m in some liminal space. That some huge change is coming because my thoughts are changing …. which indicate that what I want from my life is changing. The thing is… I don’t know what I want, at least not right now.
I’m still applying to the PhD (because I love school, and I love the environment of learning), but I just don’t know what I want anymore. Which means that I have to think about what I want… how do I want to spend the next 40 years of my life?
It’s just a weird and uncomfortable feeling… I don’t love uncertainty.
But… I did hear that women’s sex drives take a moon shot in their 40’s… so that’s a bonus, right?
I Wanna Fee that Free Fall | Poems that Suck
I don't know where I'm at
or where I'm going -
only that I am standing
at a precipice and the
only way forward is
d
o
w
n
.
Instead of feeling anxious
or fearful, I'm fantasizing
about what it will feel like
to finally tip over, head first.
I imagine it will be a relief;
the dropping sensation in my
stomach - like that second you
crest over the first coaster hill -
and the wind in my hair,
tangling it all to hell,
as I plummet toward the ground.
What a comfort it'll be to
leave the dust of the old
behind; what a delight to
be carried on the thermal
of a new life.
Site Updates !
Hey ya’ll,
I wanted to reach out and let ya’ll know that I’m taking a step back from PTS.
I know I’ve been a daily poster for a long time – pausing only for a few months when I was writing FUCK IT – but, I’m feeling super burned-the-fuck out right now and the pressure of daily posting is a bit overwhelming for me… plus the new semester looms large on the horizon.
So, I’m down shifting into only posting 3x / week – with “themed” posts.
Mondays: (My) Poems / Prose that Sucks
Wednesdays: Musings that Suck (just basically a catch all for me to keep you update on life, books, rants and raves.
Fridays: Reviews that Suck.
With regards to reviews:
- I have reviews booked (no pun intended) until 11/12 – which means there are only SEVEN slots left for the rest of the year. If you’re interested in getting your book reviewed by me (it MUST be either self or indie published! I absolutely WILL NOT read anything published by the big pubs), post your links below.
- Come January 1st, 2022 (jesus fucking christ, where did time go???) I will be taking an actual break. About 1 month from posting ANYTHING. That will be when this next semester ends, and I already know my brain will feel like scrambled eggs.
That’s about it… Poem post to come here shortly!
Bloodwarm | Reviews that Suck
I found Taylor on Twitter by chance; a mutual friend re-tweeted one of her pieces, and I fell in love with her style. I followed her and saw that she was hyping her upcoming chap with Variant Lit, Bloodwarm, and knew that I had to get it.
Book Details
Bloodwarm is 23 pages in length and approximately 5×8 in size. The binding is the standard glue and DID crack under my bending. That being said, the pages all remained in their place so it’s not that big of a deal.
The cover is matte with gold foil accents, and is made out of a good cardstock. The feel and look is high quality and professional. My only “complaint” – if it could be called that – is the red text on the front and back covers. It’s of a hue that makes it difficult to read.
The paper looks like a 30lb cream, and stands up under both fountain pens and highlighters with zero bleed and no show through. The font appears to be 10pt Garamond, so you may need some readers for this.
Content
This is a collection of poems which details the embodied experience of a Black woman in the United States – particularly the South. Taylor’s work isn’t technically dirty realism – but it’s certainly realism.
Review
They say dynamite comes in small packages and that certainly holds true for Bloodwarm. It’s 23 pages of pure fire. Napalm. White Phosphorus.
This is not a collection for the White Liberal, the Devil’s Advocate or those who claim they can’t be racist because they got a Black ___insert relationship here___. This is a collection for those who have the desire enter into a Black woman’s embodied experience and have the spine to believe what she’s telling you.
This collection is immaculate; incredibly beautiful in its vulnerability and its trust as Taylor allows you into her heart and mind. It’s not something you read quickly – each piece needs to be sat with to mull over the deep symbolism.
The show stopper for me is “How I Take My Morning Tea.” It wasn’t until my third read through that I caught it – the almost invisible text between the stanzas. At first I thought it was a printing error, and rubbed my thumb along the text to see if it’d disappear. When it didn’t I brought the book right up to my nose to look at what was going on there.
There’s a hidden poem here!
To say I was thunderstruck is not an exaggeration. I immediately recognized that I was reading a hidden transcript (ala Scott’s Domination and the Arts of Resistance), a real-time Code Switch. The brilliant marriage between poetic realism and the Acadamy had me over the moon! This is the kind of shit that I really, really live for in my Academic life.
This whole collection is brilliant, and I’m thrilled to hear that Variant is doing another run! Congratulations Taylor!!!
Why He Won’t Let You Fuck His Ass | Poems that Suck
If you want to know the REAL reason why your boyfriend won't let you fuck him up his ass you have to ask questions - deductive questions - the kind of questions that eliminates all the superficial reasons. "Do you think it's gay?" No. "Are you afraid you'll like it?" No. "Are you afraid it'll hurt?" No. "Are you worried poop will come out?" <<Silence>> There ya go, ladies. Your man won't let you fuck his ass because he's afraid his own shit will come back to haunt him.
A Poem About You Doesn’t Deserve a Name | Poems that Suck
They say you can't get blood from a stone, but you tried to get milk from my bones to nourish your anorexic heart that weighs love and control in equal measure on the rigged scales of parenthood. I've grown up in the shadow of your buzz words and catch phrases for women: Cunt. Bitch. Dyke. Slut. Cocktease. Prude. Whore. Pronouncing with a fascist authority what women can and can't, shouldn't, be or do And me trying valiantly to mould myself to the exact form for what you consider the ideal man - because women, in your eyes, ain't shit - so that I could garner a single scrap of affection or respect from you. But after 38 years, I've finally caught on to your game - better late than never! - and I'd rather char my bones to cinders in the crematorium of my own righteous fury and indignation than ever let you back in the door that I slammed in your face last April.
Poems that Suck 