Post-Poetry: Monica Mody & The End of The World


tonight’s poetess graced the lectern in rhapsodic florals reminiscent of a fairytale towertrap. general fashion was f*ckitscold. scarves scarves scarves reigned from neutral knits to pink prints. the poems wore sounds like borrowed celebrity baubles on a statuette’s night out & miss mody fielded questions with princesslike poise.

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every time I go to a reading I think the world is going to end in a precisely metrical fashion.

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post-poetry, Poetry is by Nature a Tragicomedy.

like, I’m pretty sure

the mayans are right and we’re all gonna

die soon why else the internet and why else the need

to replace our bodies with screens why else would

humanity so willingly go virtual vampire a databse

that takes you to new heights of advertising delight

like right now I’m thinking of the dairyqueen jingle and

I’m thinking of what it means when you say dairymaid

in a poem and I’m thinking of what it implies that dairy

belongs to maids who have not lacatated is this

some kind of perversion on the part of the pastoralists

is this some kind of nutritional prevomit that says

we cannot make that which we are designed to make

we can only hide in the supermarket aisle and choke

down calcification chocolates to bone marrow

calcification chocolates to bone marrow we are having

a communication problem can’t you see you need

more vitamin c if you listen to the bottles you will finally

be free like a camper with a stomach cramp you’ve got

to let it be the shame will pink your cheeks and make

you pretty and this should be your ultimate objective

that is to be a pleasing captive that is to hang out by

the trashcans pussycat pussycat that is to hot that scat

in the cookpan with the rattraps that’s one order of kung-

pow one order of mooshoomagicmushrooms one order

of eggrollmedowntdown one order of one jug of cosmo-

politiciandrinking one pint of white rice and one pint

of fried rice and extra duck sauce and no soy sauce

and extra fortune cookies please you know I’ve got kids

at home and just one pair of chopsticks yes and I’d like

to pay by credit card over the phone if that’s alright and

I can’t read the security code but I can give you aural

if you’d like to see me use my tongue give me a cherry

cherry boom boom baby I need a beat to eat to baby and

I’d be happy to please you daddy’s credit card made this

episode possible daddy’s credit card is the sponsor of

this years bulimiad daddy’s credit card is responsible for

all of your past mistakes this past mistake is brought to

you by brattiness – need a tantraum on the go? just say no

to the princess and see what kind of wounds you’ll get

there are diamonds underneath those claws and the

damage won’t be marginal it’ll send you to the hospital

LOOK AT YOUR SUFFERING it’ll send you into a coma

it’ll be the coda to the most interesting experience you’ve

ever had the story you’ll tell over and over again about

that girl that time that bar that kiss that pink that poem

that malfunction that injunction that destination that

desecration that artwork that piece of work that piece of

shit can’t believeit showed up like this wasted lip on a

bitch not worth it to gossip about your love life which

is on the line like delilah latenight there’s a song for this

and she’s sure of it

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if you want a new poetry you have to fight for it.

you have to costume & you have to exoticize it.

you have got to prioritize & infantilize it.

you have got to live for it like a showoffbruise.

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