I don’t think I’ve brushed my hair in four days
but I washed it.
I’m wearing a pink pipe-cleaner ring,
with a bead.
It’s not like I’m exactly pencil-thin
but my ribs stick out,
and my pelvic bones.
I like it when you call me, drunk,
and I like being alone,
too,
with empty inboxes,
watching my favorite movies on Netflix,
I might be more drunk than you,
on less wine.
I love it when my hands swirl
in front of my face,
and I know
you are busy,
when its been all day,
so I take pictures of myself in
sweatpants.
This is how I always look!
Deal with it,
people who like my poetry.

Photo on 3-26-13 at 9.25 PM #3

 

Photo on 3-26-13 at 9.25 PM #6Photo on 3-17-13 at 12.15 AM #4

135 thoughts on “many glasses of merlot

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  2. I am a sober scientist studying why writers drink themselves to death. A name that has no pride and abhors flattery. Try not “liking” just for one day. Empty inboxes mean poets are out hiking.

  3. i think you are absolutely stunning. in a lot of my poems about lust or desire i picture someone like you. you have the quality of just being sexy and cute and the shape of your lips and your eyebrows… wow! i love that you wear sweatpants and drink merlot and write poems… am i weird for finding that to be a real turn on? well, i know i’m weird ha ha. anyways, just wanted to say i enjoy your poems and i wanted to tell you that you’d definitely break my heart 🙂 but i’d like it

    1. First of all, the poet you are pandering to is taken, in cyberspace and in reality. Her commas are too profound for your quasi-simian level of comprehension, you driveling degenerate poetaster. I’m sure you do attempt to write about lust, never having experienced it, in your subpar haikus about Katy Perry, masturbating in your grandmother’s basement, which is where your third-grade chicken-scratch belongs. “A real turn on”? Is that really the extent of your literary articulation, or is that the beginning? Are you weird? No, you’re pathetic, you’re the grit under a leper’s fingernails. Go troll about on porn sites, not poetry blogs. This is a forum for poets and intellectuals, not a sleazy bar (or in your case, a children’s playground) or a dating site for eunuch-parasites. You are a blundering novice to this craft, your prose alone attests to your primitive inferiority. Fall asleep in malignant hypothermia in your “cozy blanket snow flake repetition”. Suicide can solve loneliness, you know.

      P.S. Emoticons are generally regarded as a feminine expression and are were created for people who lack the words to suffice their sentiments. You probably missed the memo on your tenth draft of “Roses are Red…”.

      1. Eston that is funny stuff. Do you really want to tell another soul to kill themselves. I notice that she doesn’t erase this one and chalk it up to a drunken narcissistic voyeur provoking mistake.

        1. I’m actually sort of honored that I have a stalker named Bird Brain. I mean, it’s creepy and she/he/it’ll probably end up murdering me at some point, but, its slightly endearing.

          1. “Bird Brain” is hardly a Mephistopheles. It’s not even Batman villain caliber of creepy. Stalking is the most base form of flattery, but it’s still flattery.

        1. I proved nothing, you did with your blathering imbecility and wanton desperation. It’s okay, even barnacles once had heads. I didn’t mean to interrupt your sordid fantasy, continue on with your moronic commentary. Oh, and let me know how the newest Harry Potter book was!

          1. Wow, such hostility against a harmless compliment. How long did you pour over your diction to cover the rank odour of your wife beater past? I wouldn’t know about Harry Potter but maybe you would seeing as you and your sister read it too each other in bed whilst flaming your incestuous fumblings. Why don’t you fuck off and write something decent instead of projecting the stench of your nut sack in my direction.

  4. Write drunk. Edit sober. —– Hemingway

    Don’t end up where Hemingway ended, darling. You are worth so much more than that. —- Eric

  5. Oh, I get it now! I’m supposed to regurgitate superfluous minutiae about myself so we can identify with each other. You’re just a crazy, drunken poet who looks good in sweatpants! Am I supposed to kneel to you?

      1. Fine! I like to eat inordinate doses of mescaline and galaxies of narcotics while I play my guitar naked, bleeding from carving faces in my flesh, I like to dangle from high-rise balconies and railroad bridges, I like to play with Ouija boards in haunted mansions and skydive on absinthe! Can you identify with that?! Could you handle that?! Oh, and I like long walks on the beach…Christ fucking wept.

Love you, too

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