‘BEST YOU’VE NEVER HAD’ by buttercup mcgillicuddy
an homage to ‘everyone i’ve never had sex with’ by crispin bestlyrics:
you know a lot of girls be thinkin i want to try and do sex with them
this is to confuse them even more, this is for all y’all
sorry i’m so confusing, every now and then i want it
we sure damn can cuddle tho, but i can’t make no promise on it
you are really pretty but there just so many factors honey
i don’t want to be confusing but maybe i do not frontin
every time you call, i’m sure i wanna give it up
but then you beg for it and i think give it up
we’re in my bed getting drunk and i’m givin up
and i think the same thing each time we say goodbye
baby, i am crispin best
hi i’m crispin best
i am crispin best
hi i’m crispin best
i’m the best you’ve never had
the best you’ve never had
i’m the best you’ve never had
the best you’ve never had
i met you at a reading i remember getting hammered there
making eyes at me, but then pictured someone else’s hair
damn, yeah, you’re hair is really pretty tho, i’m extremely shitty
all my friends there should have let you know
ha, you look cute staring up at me
damn, i just don’t know now that you’re glaring up at me
maybe we could hit my crib and do just what you want me to
but i’ll probly stop whatever sexy stuff you try to do
karaoke, drinking rum, walking past a london slum
you kiss me and i dis you, not exactly what i wanted to
do, damn, seems like you wanna do me
but the likelihood that i’ll shoot down every attempt to screw me
is 9 out of 10, but let’s do this again
maybe if you say you want me
a million times i’ll give in
maybe then i’ll give in
(chorus)
reading “the zeit geist” by edwin muir from transition (1926)
(Source: carolyndecarlo)
ALT LIT CITYSCAPES IS BEAUTIFUL AND ALIVE
ALIVE WITH …
alexander j. allison, j. bradley, ana c., mike bushnell, noah cicero, frank hinton, mira gonzalez, thom james, m kitchell, luna miguel, sam pink, jackson nieuwland, janey smith, willis plummer, dave shaw, stacy teague, cassandra troyan, brittany wallace and like many more
all edited by JACOB STEINBERG“Our surroundings affect us. They are the palette on which we develop our lives, our beliefs, and our feelings. The great twentieth-century Kabbalist Rav Ashlag explains that “just as the seed that is sown in the ground manifests its potential only through its environment,” that is, the quality of the soil, the amount of water or sunlight available, “once the individual has chosen his environment, he is subjected to it like clay in the hands of a potter.”
It is well known that people ascribe different cities with their own identities; our urban landscapes most certainly have their own unique way in which they are represented in culture, film, and writing. But what interested me for this project was how those identities are so often transplanted onto their inhabitants. And while dispute continues over terminology to define contemporary literature, there is an undeniable shared quality in how we write, publish, and take in literature in the internet era.”
(Source: altlitcityscapes)
psychedelichorseshitpublishing:
a little over a month ago i received a wonderful book via e-mail. due to a lot of things going on in my life the release was put on hold for a minute. but now it’s ready. i will be releasing details throughout the week and it will be available online for free…
The specter of Pittsburgh penetrates the sleeper car,
four hundred and sixty-eight miles until Chicago.
Only my father, me, and a few smokers
waiting for the next rest stop remain awake.
He says I’ve never seen the city like this before.
We sit in the club car eating walnuts and pistachios
while Amish families sleep on the vinyl blue benches.
Neon spotlights break the outlines of skips and furnaces.
Across the river, the bridges of the Golden Triangle
blaze on both the black water and sky,
and I understood how it earned its name.
The club car no longer is serving beverages and hamburgers,
and we drank the last two beers from our cooler hours ago,
somewhere when the rails and the Potomac parted.
Morning, in Gary, Indiana, we sip coffee from Styrofoam cups
as the train creeps between the rusted carcasses
of U.S. Steel mills and shipment yards.
I ask him if is this industrial America?
Is this America without the Appalachians?
He says America is the railroad,
tells me about the West, Alaska, the desert at sunrise,
riding the rails from Cumberland, Maryland
to Seattle, through California and the South,
how he saw America—places I haven’t been yet.
We watch old black men passing cards in a hand of pinochle
and skinny Japanese children tumble through the aisles.
Now, I want my father and sway of the train on the rails.
