I
wrote poetry when I was sixteen. It
could have been worse. The choice of pastime. I could have taken up flower
arrangement. The poetry could have been
better.
O Penis, Penis, Penis,
What has come between us?
When I laugh, why do you mope?
When I devil, why do
you pope?
Publishers
might go for this teenage poetasting. A #0.5,
a prequel, and a hormone sponge for my little book, which has been falling into
the hands of white, male, North American sci-fi fans. Unerringly.
Given the frequent, ironic references to planets and stars, I suppose it
serves the little book right. Sentence
these fans to tireless:. I can hear their whimpers.
“Cut
off my biggest penis, but don’t make me read tireless:!”
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