New Pangur Ban Party poetry series by Cassandra Troyan and Cody Troyan.
Shoutouts DJ Berndt, editor.
“I didn’t know they’d come this late.”
“Your mother?”
“The hummingbirds. Is my mother a they?”
“I thought you said she.”
Son looks out the window.
“Those kids riding around.”
“This doesn’t taste like anything.”
“Tastes like corn.”
“Is it because it was in the refrigerator too long?”
“People eat corn and expect a goddamn strawberry sundae on a Sunday afternoon! It tastes like corn.”
never met anyone with the name of cody. know a ted though. who would name their child ted? not fucking awesome.
listening to ‘run the world’ by hov’s main squeeze. replacing the word ‘girls’ with ‘cody’. shit is hilarious.
you see cody runs the world because he doesn’t give a shit about labels. he just does him. is that a problem?
didn’t think so. he was raised in a tent by his great grandfather. never had a real job a day in his life. his only job?
to win at this thing called life. so get in line bitch.
I think of the word “cold”
and then try not to use the word “cold”
in that poem
Man Is A Limited Creature by Cassandra Troyan
The white-topped wagons strained & stumbled in their exertions
like fat sheep.
Scars faded as flowers.
He was a babe which,
having wept its fill,
raises its eyes and fixes upon a distant toy.
“Where th’ hell yeh been?”
Where many of his usual machines of reflection had been idle,
where he had proceeded sheeplike.
He beheld that he was tiny.
He was a man.
It won’t stop crying about a lack of hits and publishing creds.
Should I put it to sleep with chloroform?
Maybe I should Google how to do that first.
But if anyone asks, I searched “chlorophyll.”
Well shit, it died. Must’ve used too much.
Dammit, where’s the shovel?
Yes mom, the baby’s fine, we’re in Disney World with some rich guy.
Yeah, we’re still here.
What do I do now?
Approximately 3 years later:
Found not guilty of killing my baby internet presence.
Riding chillwaves of reasonable doubt, bitches.
I still don’t have an internet presence though.
Suckerpunch to a painted face and fireworks come out
They are an outcry -
Projectile vomit stalagmite flamenco dancers
flying up from behind the gray cartons
Some cartons smoke
Some contain secretaries
(Who are being fucked during the grand finale/
whose reception of “fuck” is in fact the grand finale)
For most, there will be grotesque chants
and 10 blocks of lumbering
Foremost, dat New New World, illuminated
by the whizzes and pops of symbolism followed
by the wheeze and plop of
The National Hangover
dead.
New poem up at the gatekeeper-free allwritethen. Vote for mine if you like it and it could be included in the semiannual print issue.
And I have made a twitter account.
