A Long Drunken Rambling Post

Thought we were just going to post on Tuesday and Thursday this week as per our stated pattern from our first post? Surprise! Happy...week after Good Friday. Yes, this is how we celebrate the end of Lent. Doesn't everybody? -KV

A Long Drunken Rambling Post
Klaus Varley

I know what you're thinking. "A long drunken rambling post, as opposed to what? Your short sober blog posts? Your posts aren't short, and don't sound sober most of the time."

In the words of the venerable Baron Davis as quoted in the Daily Bruin circa 1997, "Slow your roll."

But maybe you're not thinking about the normal state of our posts. Maybe if your name is Minnie Grey you're thinking, "There should be commas between 'long' and 'drunken' and 'drunken' and 'rambling.'"

You might be right, Minnie. But we'll never know.

Anyhow, let the long drunken post begin! (Hint: it has already started.)

A Long Drunken Rambling Post For Real This Time
From the venerable Klaus Varley

I used to go to poetry readings in Westwood at Iso Cafe when it was called RelaxStation. Now you might be thinking, "RelaxStation is a stupid name for a cafe, no wonder they didn't last." Really? "Iso Cafe" is so much better? [1]

By whatever name, it's a two-story coffee house that serves sushi and bunch of other asian food that doesn't go with sushi.

And some nights it serves up poetry.

This night, the poetry was hosted by a poet known only as Snowplow. I soon found out her real name was "Katie." Anyhow, "plow" was cool, but nearly always did the same "Hello Kitty" poem where she explained her experience as an Asian female, growing up in a world that expected her to not have a mouth - a la the Hello Kitty doll - via the hip-hop art form known as slam poetry .

Where the hell am I going with all this? I'm not asking you, I'm trying to reorient myself. [2]

Just relax....RelaxStation...ah ha!

So, I went to the night hosted by Snowplow a few times, but I would never do a poem. Too intimidated. The other poets were too good, and by "too good," I mean some of them were really good, and other ones were okay, with a few being not bad, and one guy just asking us if we wanted more drinks, but he stuttered so it sounded like a poem. Yeah, even that guy was intimidating.

But today, thinking about the long defunct poetry readings, I have a thought: I should have written a poem.

I can write a poem.

How hard is it to write a poem?

I thought back, and imagined myself going up there, in front of the slam poets, and saying something like:

You fuckers
are intimidating
I usually just sit back
in the back
row
and listen

But listen

Tonight
I'll try
but probably lose
confidence but
it's not art
it's a start
or
beginning
leave them wanting more

That simulated "poem" took WAY too long and now I'm fading, off to bed, and sorry I couldn't wrap this up with something clever - maybe in the edit. You never now.

-KV

[1] Holy crap, in looking up how to spell "RelaxStation," I found this site which is dedicated to "the best of LA: good eats, good people, good things to do." A quick search on their site comes up empty for "WestSubs" and "A Video Store Named Desire" which means that our running series Best Things About LA can continue. Obviously this is the only instance where our tastes will cross paths. And for their information, Iso Cafe is NOT one of the best things about LA. That site sucks. Do not click the link above.

[2] When I say "reorient" it's not because Snowplow is Asian. How would that work? Sure, the word "orient" is in "reorient," but it means something completely different. Yet I can see how the average, hypersensitive, politically-correct, Asian-American studies majoring reader might raise an eyebrow or two about that word choice. Hell, it'd be a lot easier to just go back and change it than continue writing this footnote, but what's done is done. And this footnote is done. If this is the last thing you read because you didn't bother scrolling down when you encountered the "2" during the post, then this post is also done for you. If you're not a lazy reader, scroll back up and continue reading - oh you have yet to read the treasure that is the slam-poem contained within! It is not to be missed!
---

Sarah Palin's IQ is 19 Points Higher Than Paris Hilton's, Making it 20..

April Fools! Sarah Palin doesn't have an IQ.

Is that the best joke we could come up with?

No.

April fools again!

Yes, it was the best joke.

Sorry about that.

April fools!

We're not sorry.

April fools again!

We are indeed, sorry.

Especially for all the April Fools

and for prentending

this is poem

when obviously I'm just

pressing "return"

whenever the hell

I

want.

-KV

p.s. For the history of April Fools' Day, check out the Wikipedia entry.

Don't Fall for me Gently

Here's a poem from The Literary Brothel archives. Enjoy! (But not too much) -KV

Don't Fall for me Gently
Eponine

Fall for me how icicles melt in heat,

Kiss me with passion even if you don't care

Touch me like your body will crumble if I were not there.

Scream, loudly with a tantric smile

as our bodies touch in smooth dampness.

Taste, the warm sweat between my breasts

as you enrapture me with your naughty tongue

Fall for me, impatiently, like there's no tomorrow.

Fall for me madly, with the heat of reptiles,

Basking in the sun.

--

Winners of the First Annual Literary Brothel Poetry Contest!

Thanks to everyone who sent us a poem (or 5). Some great stuff. It was a tough choice, blah blah blah, here are the winners! (It seriously was a tough choice.)

WINNER - Time Capsule by Michael Shorb

TIME
CAPSULE

It had something to do
with global warming
anyway sand-
storms covered
badlands of northern
California somehow leaving
one of my poems as
a marker in time
excavated years later
it provided a contrast
to the official national
capsule back east.

Fortunately the buried poem
was quite an epic
anthropologists hefted out
so many crates of evidence
they resembled a line of
army ants.

We fared much better
than empires represented
by shards of pottery alone.

The crates ran from A
for Apple iPod to
Z for Zoroastrian creation myths.

It was all there:

why we lived

what we meant

that sort of thing.

---


RUNNER UP - Mommy Syphilis by Sarah Haas

Mommy Syphilis

A morning wet

Still dreaming

Salty and green

A sailor’s promise

Years gone by

Still linger

In the sea foam

Of her eyes

Tides come in

And wait

To wash me out again

In the holding time

Between twenty-five years

Gone by

And another morning rise

The spirit

She once took seriously

Winks at me

Before she dissolves

Into the walls

Leaving the pitiful woman

Who once

Knew how to love

Magnificently

Cursing her name

Mommy hangs

between

The false veins and arteries

Of I.V.s

Like a piece of moon bone

Fallen from the sky

Grated to dust

By the window screen

Laid wide

Across the musty arms

Of a wooden chair

Rocking back and forth

Singing

I got a rose bud

Stuck in the back of my throat

Come round

Close ya hear

And pull it out

My fingers stumble

Through the room

Catch cobwebs

And broken tresses

Of her hair

Collide

With jaundice

Dyed

Skin

Draped across

The iron cage

Where a heart still

Flutters

With feathered rage

Hoping

The seaman

Will come back

To sing

The song

She drown in

The inside corridors of my ear

Fall close enough

To feel

Her November air

She smiles

Thinking I am death

No, not today my dear

She coughs and hacks

And tries to laugh

As nails drive

Into my wrists

Pinned

I cannot catch

The scarlet phlegm

That blossoms

A bouquet

In the nape of her neck

You always were

A worthless girl

She says

I adjust the quilted flee-mat

Across her lap

“Glad to hear

You still have breath”

I make sure there is water near

And wipe down her chest

See you tomorrow

I’ll come back

And braid your hair

She tells me

The sailor will return

And take her forever

Away from here

The door

Closes her inside

Her haunted shrine

And all the neighbors can hear

Her shout about

The careless woman ‘

I turned out

I close my eyes

And take a breath

Was it the spirit that lied?

Did mom hear somewhere

That she was born

For him

I thought she was mine

I guess

We both lost out

But I will never leave

I will never set her free

Let her go

So I come back

And watch her decompose

Years ago

I cried

But now I just wait

Until darkness bends

Around

Each corner

Of her tomb

And listen to her shout

As if she were underground

Waiting outside her bedroom

I huddle by the door

For her to shrink away

Maybe she will disappear

But I wait

To hear

The tiny word –

Stay

Because I know

Secretly

She says it to me

When she thinks

I have finally

Left her there

---



HONORABLE MENTION - Freckles by Yuko Sawatani


FRECKLES

My new bikini will take me to a beach.

The beach, brings me instant satisfaction

and permanent torture.

Here, I am home and you follow me in disguise.

Slowly and silently, you start to sizzle my skin.

Like a hot stone when you put water on it.

My back, my legs, my face…..

I know it's not enough. I know you won't let me go.

Now you show yourself.

You are an enemy of my life

of all girls.

I have spilled inks on my face and they are spread out.

Wipe, erase, and bleach - nothing works.

There is no way
but to live with you forever.

---

Thanks again for all the submissions, and to guest judges Brian Lee and L____L___. Please check back next month for more contests! Poetry, prose, and more...

Narrow Ruled - A Poem

Because the poetry contest ends in 3 days (submit now!) I thought I would give this poetry writing thing a shot.

[later]

Man, that was a lot harder than copying down a Bukowski poem and putting it up on the site to get more hits. -KV


NARROW RULED
by Klaus Varley

The narrow ruled notebook
where I keep all my ideas
lives in the outside mesh pocket
of my backpack

One day
I thought I lost it.

"Have you seen the narrow ruled notebook where I keep all my ideas?"
I asked my girlfriend.
"No."
She said.

I couldn't think of what was written
on the pages.
All I could remember
was a list
of potential articles
for The Literary Brothel
written on the back page.

But I couldn't remember the articles.
Only that I had made a list.

The next day
when I found my narrow ruled notebook
in my computer bag
I turned to that list.

Dentist.
Yoga.
Tarnation.
Wall-E.
Ad.
Fly.

I added one more.

Poem - Narrow Ruled

-KV

We don't usually post on the weekend

Seriously.

What are you doing reading this?

Go out and play.

or

Write a poem

Like this one

But better.

Send it to us

And you could win

A fedora.



-KV

The First Annual Literary Brothel Poetry Contest

Welcome to the First Annual Literary Brothel Poetry Contest

PRIZES

1st Place
Your own link on the left bar of The Literary Brothel, bragging rights, and a fedora.

Runner Up
One autographed book of our choosing (autographed by Klaus Varley)

Honorable Mention
We will mention you. With honor. And words.

Rules

All poems are eligible to be made into short films via The Short-a-Week Project. If you submit a poem, you are consenting to that frightening possibility.

To Enter: email us a poem

To Win: email us a good poem

Deadline: July 31, 2008

Five poems max per person

No fake names

literarybrothel@gmail.com

Bukowski Quote of the Weekend

even when starving
the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:
I only believed that the editors were
truly stupid
and i just went on and wrote more and
more.
I even considered rejects as
action; the worst was the empty
mailbox.

-Charles Bukowski from "hell is a closed door," The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Words in a Semi-Specific Order by Boris Salvador

When I first read this poem, I thought Boris was making fun of the way I write poetry. I still think so. -KV

Words in a Semi-Specific Order


Like paper rain drops falling on the road,
Running gold tears of something that is defiantly not gold.
I fly amongst a purple mountain's majestic view of golden plains of something that is certainly not gold.
So suck in air to breathe Mr. Tangerine man.
Because we are all just taking up space.
Space like a ring around a ball whose gases lie outside
Like a forgotten blade of grass in a lawn of pink flamingoes and ceramic munchkin idols.
Praying to a golden sun that is most assuredly not golden.
And taking up space,
Space like a line preceding
"The End"
And anteceding a psuedo poem that while being incredibly nonsensical and truly meaning nothing
Manages to sound like coffee house fodder
Pleasing the Sophistos.

The Space

"The End"

By Boris Cougar Salvador

We are now TheLiteraryBrothel.com

or www.theliterarybrothel.com

but you can still get to it via www.theliterarybrothel.blogspot.com

but why would you want to type in the "blogspot"?

I paid 5

and Parker Briggsmore

(absentee co-owner of The Literary Brothel)

paid 5

and we bought a domain.

What is it?

theliterarybrothel.com

where have you been?

don't forget the "the"

it's very important

to be

repetitive

so people remember

what you tell them

even in

poems

like this one

about our new domain

TheLiteraryBrothel.com

-KV

High Society - by Kevin Eno

Here's another poem from Kevin Eno written who knows when that he sent us a really long time ago. (The Literary Brothel seeks eager undergraduates for bookkeeper internship). When we published Horror Movies he complained we got his format wrong, so this time we actually opened the attached file. Thanks for the tip. -KV

High Society

Is this High Society?

Or is society high?

High on prozac, or marplan, or elavil, or
lithium carbonate, or phenothyazines
or any other drugs that would make
Philippe Pinel want to overdose on Haldol.

High on exhaust fumes spewing from the
tail pipes of inefficient automobiles
like cheap beer from the mouths
of the drunkards behind the wheel.

High on life; a life enslaving billions
so we can have our Nikes, our cell
phones, our radios, our video games,
our bananas, and our MTV.

High on weed that puts money into
the hands of con-artists and killers
and robs the young of their livelihood;
replacing their dreams with nothing
more than an over-priced emotion.

High on war; wars that are taking
place on the other side of the world
when we can't even feed our hungry
and care for our sick.

High on anything that keeps us from
realizing just how low we
really are.

IKENOI

Lost Chances - by Parker Briggsmore

Here's a poem from Parker. We're pretty sure he wrote it BEFORE the Brothel came about, and then submitted it to the site, but whatever. We don't care. If you like poems, you might like it. -KV

LOST CHANCES

Parker Briggsmore

Lost chances

Shifting stances,

Half spoken words remaining prolonged glances

Moments,

like sliding doors,

derailing romances,

when they pass,

With quickly spoken nonsense

into the past,

and do not fade,

rather, last and linger.

Strings on the finger that tap my brain at night

As I stay awake and contemplate

Failures to communicate

feelings that dominate

the Universe that exists in the cell of my soul grown cold

in the absence of the rise of its moon,

and too soon

the scenario threatens to repeat again,

and again

and again,

but...

this time…

from my lowered heights,

I do ascend.

Rising past walls built up to defend

with love in my heart

to mend

a wound in my soul,

taking control of what fate has foretold,

me and you together,

forever,

growing old,

two fragments finally whole.

And in this script,

I gladly play my role

So I take my chance…

Offering half a smile and a prolonged glance

giving you everything for a little romance.

and as I look into your eyes and you look back

risking the present to banish the past,

I know,

that all the words of love that were never said,

will be spoken at last.

-PB

Horror Movies

Here's a poem submitted last year from Kevin Eno that we never got around to putting up. Did you think we were going to post really old stuff first then post more modern stuff? So did we. But Kevin kept bugging us, so here's his freakin' poem. (Just kidding, Kevin. We like it a lot. Seriously. -KV)

Horror Movies
by Kevin Eno

The fake blood shouldn't scare you

Not half as much

As what they put on your

Ten-dollar tub of popped corn

Or how much you paid

To get into the multi-plex

Theatre built on an ancient

Burial ground

Or the parents

Who came to the

Ten o'clock show with their

Three year old son

And newborn baby

Or the fact that

The kid who tore your ticket

Didn't graduate high school

Or what was in

The hotdog

You just ate

What should really scare you

Is how much

You can relate

To the antagonist

K E V I N E N O