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I love me some Utopian Fragments (aka Dhyan). Now you can, too. Here’s a really cool one that has to be one of my faves ever….Enjoy
she came on a Sunday
left on a Wednesday
it wasn’t like it was a special day
she liked leaves
and maybe be leaving too
come to think of it
when it’s time to go
let ‘er go
ears against the wind
flipped inside out
the way they should be
Postscript, if there is such a thing: My beloved beagle, Poppy, has been missing since last Wednesday. She had been playing and running, a delightful sight for a seven-year-old nap-centric dog who’d had cancer (twice!) on one of her legs and an affinity for eating foods deemed “The Most Fatal Foods For Dogs.” The wind in her ears, mouth stretched into a smile, she ran toward me before psyching me out and turning the other way. She trotted off and that was the last I’ve seen of her.
The punchline wasn’t the real punchline
Or at least it wasn’t funny
Like most things
It’s what comes after the punchline that matters most
Guest blog post by Bryan Borland, in MedicatedLady’s absence
I was honored when MedicatedLady asked me to write a guest-post in her absence. Well, not so much honored as burdened. And she didn’t ask me so much as I demanded. Such is our relationship.
MedicatedLady is, at this moment, touring our nation’s capitol. Her trip is unrelated to the House’s recent passing of healthcare legislation, though, even so, a group of teabaggers resolved not to pay for MedicatedLady’s medication through public funding and took to protesting her visit. MedicatedLady did happen to snap a photograph of one of their crudely-drawn signs (Damn those Republicans!):
In other news, MedicatedLady would like for me report that the closest she’s come to an intimate encounter with a man while on this trip was when she entered a taxi to discover the cabbie had recently completed an intimate encounter with himself. To distract MedicatedLady, he then proceeded to blast the news at eardrum-bursting levels and got snippy with MedicatedLady when she couldn’t hear or understand his probing questions (which, no doubt, were meant to fuel future self-gratuity). Being the gracious woman she is, MedicatedLady simply stared straight ahead and shook her luminous hair until she arrived at her destination.
For your further entertainment, I will now provide a sampling of text messages I’ve received from MedicatedLady in the last month or so:
My dog just peed on me.
Say to yourself, herbs! With an audible “h.” This will bring you joy.
OMG severe storms make my ovaries and left knee hurt.
You can expect more of our mutual charm when MedicatedLady and I finally video-blog together the first weekend in April. We’ll be handing out advice to you, Dear Readers, so if there are any problems in your life you would like us to address, now is the time to send in your questions. For example, are you having trouble with the menz? Do you suffer from paraurisis, the disorder that makes urination in public places near impossible? Are you allergic to love and love byproducts? Did your cleaning lady break your vacuum cleaner? Do you have trouble spelling the word vacuum? Do you hate MedicatedLady because she has a cleaning lady? Does your dog shit on the floor and grind it into the tile to spite you? Does your mother hate the purse you carry? Did you lose your virginity to a mode of transportation? Do you constantly get mistaken for a 12-year-old girl? We can help you out with these issues and more, so don’t be shy.
We certainly won’t.
I’ve been inspired by many of my fellow bloggers and my precious Bunny-Love (who considers me Mother and Poetic Grin his Other Mother, for he is the logical love child of the unnatural union of Bryan and me) has generously answered my probing questions with grace and good humor.
1. There was a skit on SNL once where Will Farrell was playing Harry Carry and said, “If you were a hotdog and you were stranded on an island, would you eat yourself?” Well, would you?
It depends on the type of hotdog I would be; if I were to be any sort of alternative hotdog–turkey, soy, etc–no. Just no. However; if I happened to become, in my hotdog island isolation, a chilli dog, there would be nothing for rescuers to find. If I were to be transformed into a corndog, that would be ideal, because I can only ever eat about half of one. The taste is great, but I get sick of it easily. And really, that sounds like me.
2. Where you do get your inspiration for writing? (Also, please tell our esteemed readers where your name comes from.)
I get my inspirations from a variety of sources. The major provider is just observations I make while wandering around, watching people or animals or plants or documentaries. The second source would have to be love. Friendly, lustful, insatiable, painful, distraught, miserable, wonderful, joyful, manic, light, and especially dark, love. I get little echoes of writings from my friends, but my best work derived from love comes from relationships. There are a lot of gay themes, and gay romances explored in my writing.
In regards to my name, B.R. Belletryst, I should say that the first part was given to me by someone who will always mean a lot to me. B.R. stands for Bunny Rabbit. The name came about during a particularly verbal sexual scene in which he told me to sit and hop on his cock, and called me his cock-rabbit. It developed into a pet name, Bunny, and has since become a name I regularly associate with. The second part, Belletryst, is my own invention. It is a portmanteau, sort of. A belletrist is a writer who writes centered around aesthetics, which is something I’d like to believe I do. The latter half of this word was changed though, because of my influence from love. A tryst, as defined by The Free Dictionary, is an agreement between lovers, especially in regards to a location to meet at. This word making up so much of who I am, romantically, as well as quite a few of my dreams, seemed a natural alteration to the word belletrist.
And so with the poem “in which he wakes,” B.R. Belletryst was born. I had been operating my website before that, but it was really with that poem, and that series of events that inspired it that I became the person and poet that my dear friend MedicatedLady is interviewing today.
3. Can you tell me why I’m so obsessed with my dog poo-ing?
No; but I can offer you this–cat poop is the worst thing in the world. The worst thing in the world. Ever.
4. How did you know writing was going to be a major part of your life?
I never know that it will be. It’s just part of me. I can’t explain to you why I write, why I write what I write, and I can’t tell you, or others, to write, or how enriching it is, if it is. To give you an example of what I’m talking about, I just recently started work outside of writing, and haven’t written anything since September 28th, journaling aside. Writing is a biological function to me, natural. It is a bodily excretion, as someone once said to me. It oozes. It flows. It is important, and it is nothing. Writing is drool, is shit, is cum, is piss, is blood, is menstrual blood, is bile, is tears, is snot, is earwax. It’s slow, it’s explosive, it’s orgasmic, it’s release, it’s scary, it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, it is salty, it is gross, and it is beautiful and delicious. Writing is alchemy; primordial fluids coming together.
I don’t control when I’ll write, what I’ll write, or if I will feel like it at all. My idea about writing is that writers are and constantly become. Every day you write something, you become a writer, or tap into it, and it takes something from you, and gives you something else.
5. Ohio seems like a nice enough place. Can you give me the high points and low points of life there? Also, do people from Ohio support cows?
Ohio. There are decent theme parks and some kind of history involved, but it’s very boring. I live in Lancaster, Ohio–a small city that gets its kicks out of preserving American Civil War history. I’ve heard so much about General Sherman (even went to the middle school!) that I’ve lost a bit of respect for history. I’ve been in all the historical buildings, seen all those meticulously preserved outfits, rooms, and cannons, and the only thing I have to say about it is that it’s like keeping your dead grandfather’s toenails; creepy, unnecessary, and obsessive. But that’s just my opinion. I fully acknowledge that the Civil War and all involved were important to history, and the development of our country, but the extent to which my city revolves around it is ridiculous. In all honesty, my favorite part about Ohio is the people, and getting out of my city to go to Columbus. There’s a bit more culture, the people are more exciting, and there is always something to do.
That was a bit of a rant. Oh well, I’m planning on immigrating to Canada in years to come.
Cows, cows, cows. Nope. No support for cows whatsoever. I think that’s sort of an American thing. Or a human thing, considering Kobe Beef and cows everywhere else in the world, excluding India.
All around me, carnivorous people ripping them apart, screaming, chanting “BEEF! STEAK! JERKY! PRIME RIB! BURGER! RIBS! BARBECUE! TONGUE!”
And I hear their teeth, just gnashing,
gnashing, and holy fuck, it’s like trains
crashing, brains just like potatoes mashing,
something disturbing, but can’t look away,
teeth sinking in, tongue chewed on,
trying not to betray my senses
as I fight off winces, hunger growing,
growing, thoughts start slowing,
racing to realization, serenity or actualization
–Beef. Beef. It’s what I want. Juicy, rip it apart, consume, consume, oh gods it has consumed me, that fucking cow head, that fucking taste, give me more! MORE! I demand it!
MORE! Suddenly, meal finished,
I’m back, I abhor;
I can’t believe it was me, those actions, those … poor cows. Thoughts of meat hooks, slaughter houses, mooing, mooing, chopping, sawing, hooves flying and butchers laughing… Am I repulsed? Am I horrified? I’ll have chicken tomorrow. Or maybe… beef.
Visit Bunny’s website at http://brbelletryst.wordpress.com/
Bunny and I met recently through Bryan and we’ve fallen in love. He’s also our Asian love child, which has a little bit of an Oedipus-esque twist minus the shame and eyegauging, and I am happy to share the fruits of our love with all of my dear readers.
I. From dearest Bunny Belletryst.
Careful, my medicated lady, for if
you prescribe, know this, a narcotic, is what
A bunny leaps,
reads the label, but what it should say,
is a bunny takes you, takes you,
may lead you astray.
Should my jolly roger affect you lightly, pop a few like jolly ranchers…
Should my taste suit you, a Pavlov-drooling, babbling, witty banter…
take more. take more. take more.
What’s your dosage, my lady?
Can you take the bunny-pill pledge, Lady?
If you think the shoddy design on the old bottle is faded,
just read the poem,
the inscription, get jaded.
A bunny leaps and leaps and leaps.
And so will you, come, creep
to my bottle, hold out your hand.
Look before you leap,
or you may never understand.
From MedicatedLady to Bunny.
An indelible duo
of heart and head
Your Honey to my Bunny.
Twenty-four hours is too long to decide to love.
Let’s make it snappy
and I’ll give you double snaps
and a freckled smile
not much to give
but what I have.
It’s not that I think I’m good
it’s that I know you are
and I’m happy
to follow you
wherever your bunny trails may lead.
See Bunny’s blog at
Oh, Air Force John.
How you’ve helped me this week.
My time of need and all.
You have provided ample distraction from real-life tragedy.
Your silence is better than your hi’s or highs.
Perhaps I would have liked to consider you a distraction in the flesh but no matter.
Oh, Air Force John.
For you, I’d avoid eating Doritos two hours before seeing you.
For you, I’d not resent leaving a third of my peppermint mints at your abode, not to mention two of my bobby pins.
For you, I’d diet.
For you, I’d murder Bryan’s murderous interpretation of me as sad.
Oh, Air Force John.
We have something oh so special.
I do not have your cell phone number or your email address anymore.
I knew what would happen.
But oh, Air Force John, to say, hi again.
Have I told you* lately how much I like excuses? Especially ones involving elderly parents and work? Have I told you how classy it is for you to invite me to hit you up if I get bored at ***-***-**** without your knowing or asking for my name? I suppose I could call myself “you know, that girl.”
If I haven’t told you, it’s because I love you. I love your excuses, your elderly parent, hitting you up at ***-***-****, and your not knowing my name. I love that you are interested in my being an astronaut, but missing the humor in my saying that. You sound sincere. You like history, though, and you read war stories (although for the life of me I do not know what FAC means in reference to Vietnam}. You might be eternally interesting or boring.
Would you leave me to go live in another country without telling me? Would you tell me you have no affection for me? Or would you come up with something truly original, something that causes me pause and grand crying spells that make people uncomfortable (and that Bryan will gracefully explain away: “MedicatedLady crazy” or “She forgot her medicine” or “ML is in her dark place right now”)?
These questions will have to wait as I feel fat. I don’t want to lose you, but I feel that meeting up is eminent or imminent and of course, that is not an option when one is fat. Or maybe I’ll convince myself it is an option as I enjoy self-injurious behavior and your judgment would be no less than what I deserve.
Love always, so long as you make it hurt**,
*You as in the composite of a couple menfolk. You as in plural menfolk. Understand?
**”Make it hurt” is a Bryan-patented phrase that I use daily because it’s a great line. Understand? This post is password-protected but I still encourage you go to poeticgrin.com for your own enjoyment.