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Posts Tagged ‘Ani Smith’

Daniel Bailey is a drunken face to love

In Interviews on October 29, 2009 at 9:01 pm

Reading THE DRUNK SONNETS (published by Magic Helicopter Press) makes me want to sit on Daniel Bailey’s lap, take the whiskey bottle from his hand, put it down on the table, grab his face between my palms, squeeze his cheeks and mouth into a fish pout and stare at his irises for a really long time until I find out what’s behind them or he sheepishly tries to smile and shifts beneath me.

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Mike Young makes moonbats in your brain

In Interviews on September 8, 2009 at 7:40 pm

Mike Young is a boy with a persimmon-shaped heart who lives in California and likes words like cherimoya. He co-edits NOÖ Journal and Magic Helicopter Press and a full-length book of his poetry, We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough, is forthcoming in 2010 from Publishing Genius.

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Jimmy Chen is pensive in bed

In Interviews on May 2, 2009 at 9:30 am

Jimmy Chen is the swoonsome grey matter behind Typewriter – a ticklish new, modern magic (but not in a corny way) selection of little-in-size-not-content stories recently published by Magic Helicopter Press.

I cunningly convinced Jimmy to let me interview him, and I didn’t even have to show him my boobs. Score.

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Sam Pink is a sweet sweet boy

In Interviews on March 22, 2009 at 12:27 pm

Sam Pink wrote a slayer of a book called I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THEN KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT from Paper Hero Press, whose editor gave me free UK shipping because he loves me. Or perhaps he was being a savvy businessman. No, no, I think he loves me. As does Sam Pink. I’m pretty sure that’s what they whispered in my ear repeatedly as we built a blanket-and-cushions fortress in my room last night. But enough about me.

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You have balls to call yourself a "writer" you fucking loser

In Reasons on March 9, 2009 at 7:09 pm

I didn’t let on to anyone that I like to write for twenty-eight and a half years, give or take a few agonisingly illiterate ones towards the very beginning. I didn’t think I was good enough (still don’t) to even suggest such a stretch. And yet I wrote. I always wrote. I didn’t save it, I didn’t submit it anywhere, I didn’t show it to friends, but if I wasn’t quietly self-destructing through abuse of hallucinogens and bad relationships, I wrote.

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Literary Lust

In Poetry on February 21, 2009 at 11:23 pm

Long, slender fingers tap tap tapping on an old, dusty typewriter
Abstract ideas coalesce into a moist and shameful longing
Each sentence is an invitation typeset in desire
Expertly punctuated with a heavy sigh

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