How to be a Sensitive Poet by Matt Groening
Rumi Is So Overrated
Missed Connections in Athens
Seriously.
If you’ve got a hankerin’ for angsty, sexually-ambiguous love poetry written by an ascetic, repressed-homosexual mooncalf, just listen to The Smiths.
Quoting the Poufy Persian is for precocious 9th Grade Drama students who wear intentionally-ugly shoes and give their goldfish ironic names like Fluffy and Gertrude Stein;
and aging former-Drama kids who go to white people Jazz bars and have, like, a paperback copy of the Coleman Barks translations and maybe a volume of goddamn RILKE on the coffee table for show.
MY GOD just meet up already, have your quirk-filled picnic in the graveyard with some Kroger deli cheese and a cheap cabernet, go _thrifting_, watch a Lars von Trier and/or Audrey Hepburn movie on Netflix, and while away the night losing yourselves in each other’s big twinkly eyes.
Oh, if I’d only known sooner that all one needed to get laid was a rhyming dictionary and knowledge of proper em-dash usage, I probably wouldn’t be a bitter, cat-hoarding spinster, trolling internet message boards whilst eating stale gas station doughnuts on a Saturday night.
Poets. I swear. You fuckers.
Her Two Cents
Athens. I swear… Thank you for always keeping it real. Whenever my thoughts start-a-creepin’ that there’s magical mystical creative forces a-foot in your humid kudzu you send up a flare bright and clear: mooncalves and muses are not the stuff you are made of. FYI – Bitter, cat-hoarding, donut-eating trolls can, and do, make exceptional writers.
