Calvero's Blog, page 201
February 27, 2015
8.Bukowski The ex-girl rings the doorbell...
8.Bukowski
The ex-girl rings the doorbell of an apartment on the first floor of an apartment
complex.
A
few seconds later, Charles Bukowski answers the door with a beer in hand and a
cigar hanging from his mouth.
He
stands there, glaring at the ex-boy and ex-girl with unfriendly eyes that look
like broken, yellow teeth. He wears a Mickey Mouse t-shirt covered in cigarette
burns and his pants look dirty and he’s wearing no shoes.
“What
do you want?” Bukowski asks the ex-boy and ex-girl.
“We’re
here delivering your pizza,” the ex-girl says, slightly elevating the pizza in
front of Bukowski’s face as if punctuating her point that she and the ex-boy
are, in fact, there to deliver pizza.
Bukowski
growls/moans.
“Damn
that woman…” he mutters to himself. “LINDA!”
“WHAT?”
a female voice screams from inside the apartment.
“There’s
a pizza delivery girl here. Did you order a pizza?”
“Yeah,
bring it on in.”
Bukowski
growls/moans again.
“Well
we have to pay for the damned thing!”
“So
pay for it!”
“You
think I have any money, you crazy, damned WHORE!”
“You
cheap bastard… Tell them to come inside. I’m gonna look for my purse.”
“Come
in, come in,” Bukowski says, waving them inside.
The
ex-boy and the ex-girl walk into the apartment.
Their
black rain clouds follow them.
"You hate yourself
so much
and you’re so confused
that you’re not sure whether
you should be mad
at..."
so much
and you’re so confused
that you’re not sure whether
you should be...
it’s cold masturbating in rock bottom (i recommend you bring a sweater)
"because the only way
for something
to stay beautiful
forever
was to not know it
for too long."
for something
to stay beautiful
forever
was to not know it
for too...
February 26, 2015
I hate you.
Just totally loathe you entirely.
Just totally loathe you entirely.
7. the sun has a fucking horrible taste in music The...
7. the sun has a fucking horrible taste in music
The ex-boy and the ex-girl are back in the small Nissan on their way to deliver more pizzas.
Their black rain clouds hover behind their heads in the back seat and are each looking out their respective windows, minding their own business, but never let themselves mentally drift too faraway from their owners.
The ex-boy is still thinking about the lady
who is using pizza as a murder weapon and, judging from the blank expression on
her face, he can tell the ex-girl still is too.
“Do you ever hate the sun?” the ex-girl
suddenly asks. “Because I do,” she replies, not giving the ex-boy a chance to
answer her. “The sun has given us too many chances. It has given us too many
days. And what have we accomplished with them? Nothing but a loveless world
filled with people who have poison hearts and who can turn anything into a
murder weapon. Even something as wonderful and tasty as pizza. Like only people could turn pizza into a murder
weapon. Hahaha, do you know what I mean? And there’s this line. And there
always has been this line too. And I feel like I’m the only one who knows about
it. And it shouldn’t be a secret line at all. Like everyone should know about it. Because it’s a horrible line. A line
made out of selfishness and greed and hate and violence and all that other
really bad stuff. And, as people, it’s been our only job to stay away from this
line made out of selfishness and greed and hate and violence because if we ever
were to cross this line then it becomes too late. We’ve gone into this horrible
place and there’s no going back and there’s no saving us from destroying
ourselves. And I’m afraid we’ve crossed it. And, if we haven’t, I feel like
we’re dangerously close to crossing it… I dunno… I know I should be mad at
people right now for being so unkind and uncaring and just plain cruel, and for
making this all so much harder and miserable than it has to be, but I’m not.
I’m mad at the sun. And I feel like I won’t be happy until the sun is unhappy.
Until it retreats inside itself where it listens to a depressing iTunes
playlist filled with Morrissey and The Cure and Hank Williams and,
consequently, casting us all into a freezing darkness where we belong.”
The
ex-boy doesn’t reply. He stares ahead at the road. Into whatever uncertain
future they’re hurtling themselves into. And even though he doesn’t know what
they’re hurtling themselves into, he does know, almost for a fact as he glances
up towards the sun, that today the sun is not unhappy.
That
the sun is actually very happy.
That
the sun is currently listening to an iTunes playlist full of upbeat, overly
poppy, hollow songs about living your life and only living once and throwing
your hands in the air and getting on the dance floor. All those kind of songs
that the ex-boy hates.
“The sun has a fucking horrible taste in
music,” the ex-boy says.
“It does. It really fucking does… Haha, I’m sorry… I’m sorry if I made you sad.
Sometimes I get really sad and morbid. Hahaha, in case you couldn’t tell! …This
is why I normally don’t talk to people. Usually just to flowers.”
“You talk to flowers?” the ex-boy says.
“Mm hmm. All the time, really. They’re lovely
to talk to.”
“What do the flowers say when you talk to
them?” the ex-boy asks.
The ex-girl smiles.
“Oooooooh, ahhhhhhhhhh, OOOOOOOOOH!” the
ex-girl says, her voice sounding so pretty and gentle and soft and delicate
that the noises coming out of her mouth don’t appear to be coming from her and
vocal chords but rather as if they are being blown out of a whistle constructed
out of angel bone and clouds.
The ex-boy has never talked to flowers
before, and he has never had flowers talk to him, but, if he had had flowers
talk to him, he would bet his life “Oooooooh,
ahhhhhhhhhh, OOOOOOOOOH!” is exactly what they would say.
6.the house that looks like an old hitchhiker that...
6.the house that looks like an old hitchhiker that gave up and turned itself into a house speaks
“He’s
not a bad monster…”
The
ex-boy and the ex-girl look up at the house that looks like an old hitchhiker
that gave up and turned itself into a house.
It’s
talking to them.
“I
would know. He lives in my basement. He has a few cats but he never hurts them
or eats them or anything. Only pets them. He’s quiet too for the most part.
Keeps to himself. Likes watching Charlie Chaplin films. Mainly his
feature-length ones. Reads a lot too. Yates, Fante, Dahl, Murakami, Selby Jr., Carver.
And her? She watches ‘The Little Couple’ and ‘Dancing With the Stars’ and
‘Keeping Up With The Kardashians.’ She’s too jaded and full of razor-sharp
self-hatred and reality shows to realize quietness and individuality aren’t
things to be feared. Sad shit, man… Sad, sad, shit… He’s not a bad monster. I
would know, ya know? I mean, he lives in my basement.”
The ex-boy and the ex-girl nod their heads
solemnly.
“Say,
are you two headed out West by any chance? If I have to listen to her watch the
umpteenth season of ‘The Voice’ again I’m gonna kill myself or go crazy or
something. And I’ve never seen The Pacific either. That would be really
something, ya know? Seeing the Pacific.”
“No.
We’re just delivering pizzas locally,” says the ex-girl. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh…
Okay…” the house that looks like an old hitchhiker that gave up and turned
itself into a house says.
And then stops talking.
Anyone who requested a snail mail version of my newest poem, they were all mailed out today. So if...
February 25, 2015
tyler not andersonby Calvero preface ...
tyler not anderson
by Calvero
preface
1.
Tap-tap-tappity-tap… goes Tyler Not Anderson’s typewriter.
And then it happens…
The moment Tyler Not Anderson has been waiting for arrives – the final tap! of his typewriter for the day.
And that’s it. After forty-five painstaking seconds of hard, grueling work Tyler Not Anderson’s newest poem is finally done.
The final tap is always Tyler Not Anderson’s favorite out of all the taps he hears when he’s writing on his typewriter.
The sound of the final tap always paints a smile across his face.
A smile that looks like a used condom.
But a used condom that the male who was using it couldn’t successfully ejaculate into.
Tyler Not Anderson stands up from behind his typewriter and stretches his arms high above his head. Sunlight is shining on him through the semi-closed blinds and he is feeling good.
Tyler Not Anderson is feeling very, very good.
He is still smiling.
And Tyler Not Anderson has no reason not to smile.
He’s completely oblivious as to how the empty, used condom smile on his face looks like a reflection of the seventeen words he’s typed on the piece of paper that’s standing in his typewriter with the limp, slouched posture of a man who looks like he’s about ready to leap out of a twentieth story window.
Fully stretched out, Tyler Not Anderson lets out a hearty sigh and drops his arms down by his sides. He glances at his latest poem and his empty, used condom smile stretches even further across his face as he looks at it in all of its typewritten glory.
Romantic… Tyler Not Anderson’s brain thinks. The yellow tinged piece of paper with my words typed on it looks old fashioned and romantic because of how old fashioned and poetic it looks.
Tyler Not Anderson takes the poem out of the typewriter so he can take a closer, better look at it.
You’ve done it again, you sexy S.O.B., you… You’ve done it again… Tyler Not Anderson’s brain says as he shakes his head back and forth in an “I can’t believe you did it again” kind of manner.
Then Tyler Not Anderson suddenly feels like the crotch of his jeans are shrinking.
But his jeans aren’t shrinking.
It’s just his dick getting hard again.
This is normal.
This is just part of the process.
A case of guy cramps always happens when Tyler Not Anderson stands before his typewriter and stares at his latest piece of romantic brilliance.
Staring down at his poem as if his poem were the eyes of a drop dead gorgeous, beautiful woman, Tyler Not Anderson unzips his fly and pulls out his dick and begins jerking himself off.
“Look at me! Look at me, you bitch!” Tyler Not Anderson screams at the romantic-looking poem he’s holding up in front of his face, forcing it to make eye contact with him. “Look at me! Look into my eyes, you sexy, fucking bitch! Aw yeah… Aw yeahhhhh…”
Tyler Not Anderson’s loins are boiling like a pot of water on the stove that’s all ready to make spaghetti.
He’s going to cum any second now.
It will be so romantic.
“No!!! Wait!!!” Tyler Not Anderson screams to his boiling loins. “My crown! I need my crown!”
Tyler Not Anderson squeezes the tip of his dick, postponing his ejaculation. He looks around his apartment, his eyes scanning it for his crown, and he spots his crown sitting on the left cushion of his couch like a dead cat.
With his pants and boxers down around his ankles, Tyler Not Anderson quickly shimmies over to the couch and picks up the crown and puts it on his head with the one free hand that isn’t clamping down on his dick with.
Now, with his crown on, Tyler Not Anderson can resume his orgasm.
Tyler Not Anderson begins playing with his dick again, trying to bring back his orgasm after having postponed it.
“King of Notes… King of Notes… I am the Notes King of Tumblr… I am the mother fucking Notes King!” he says to himself while working his cock tirelessly. “Typewriters! Notes! Reblogs, reblogs, reblogs! Yes! Reblogs, yes! Yes, yes, yessssssss!!!!!!”
Tyler Not Anderson orgasms. He aimlessly shoots his cum onto the floor just like he always does after jerking off to his latest poem.
The entire apartment is covered with the writer’s semen.
His apartment looks like snow day.
Like a very, very, very sticky snow day.
Tyler Not Anderson collapses onto his couch, panting heavily.
He straightens the crown on his head and reaches over the armrest of the couch and picks up his old-fashioned ear horn.
Tyler Not Anderson holds the ear horn up to his ear and listens to the thousands and thousands of pre-teen girls and teenage girls fingering their pre-teen and teenage twats while reading his most recent haikus and poems online.
The sound of them fingering their wet pre-teen and teenage twats sounds like two armies of wet sponges fighting against one another.
Tyler Not Anderson’s empty, used condom smile stretches even further across his face.
“Long live the king…” Tyler Not Anderson says to himself.
2.
There’s a knock at the door.
Tyler Not Anderson knows who it is.
It’s the interviewer.
Today Tyler Not Anderson is being interviewed by someone from an online magazine about the really awesome, really romantic poetry he writes.
Tyler Not Anderson has been looking forward to it.
Interviews = more fame.
More fame = more blog followers.
More blog followers = more notes/more reblogs.
More notes/more reblogs = more pre-teen and teenage girls fingering themselves to his poetry.
More pre-teen and teenage girls fingering themselves to his poetry = more book sales.
More book sales = more money.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tyler Not Anderson answers the door.
The interviewer doesn’t look like he expected.
The interviewer is not a young, beautiful woman who wants to blow him.
It’s a guy, late twenties, who, most likely, doesn’t want to blow Tyler Not Anderson.
The interviewer has a distinct look to him. Like he’s a homeless guy who has been living on the streets for so long that, in regards to the thousands of people who pass by him, he has just become some nonhuman part of the sidewalk he sits on. Like a mailbox. Or a lamppost.
That’s it…
The interviewer looks like a lamppost.
He’s not human anymore. Just part of the sidewalk scenery, making it impossible for people to recognize him and give him any of their spare change because who the fuck is going to give their spare change to a mailbox or lamppost or garbage can?
Tyler Not Anderson feels disappointed.
Orgasms and getting blown are the reason he writes poetry to begin with.
Why the fuck would anyone else write poetry if the poetry didn’t eventually lead to some kind of orgasm and/or getting blown?
“Hey…” Tyler Not Anderson says lethargically.
“Hey. How’s it going?” the interviewer replies.
“Okay… Want to come in?” Tyler Not Anderson asks the interviewer even though he doesn’t want the interviewer to come in because, without a doubt, he doesn’t want the interviewer blowing him and what’s the point of inviting someone inside your apartment if they’re not going to blow you?
The interviewer peeks his head inside Tyler Not Anderson’s apartment. He notices the mass amounts of semen everywhere, covering the apartment like frosting covering a birthday cake.
“Hmm… What would you think about doing the interview out here in the hallway?” the interviewer asks.
3.
Tyler Not Anderson and the interviewer are sitting out in the hallway.
The interviewer holds a pen and is flipping through a small notepad.
“Okay…” the interviewer says, looking up from his notepad at Tyler Not Anderson. “Ready?”
“Wait… Hold on,” Tyler Not Anderson says.
Tyler Not Anderson adjusts the crown so it rests perfectly upright on his head.
“Okay,” Tyler Not Anderson says. “Now I’m ready.”
The interviewer grins politely.
“So, you write a lot of love poems…”
“Romantic… Love is so, so romantic, don’t you think?”
“Uh huh… Yeah, of course… And one could even say that all you write is love poems? Would you agree with that?”
“Yes. I suppose one could say that. It’s just that love poems are so… so… umm… soooooooo?”
“Romantic?” the interviewer says, finishing Tyler Not Anderson’s sentence for him.
“Yes! That’s it! Romantic! Just the word I was looking for… I like you, man… Even though you’re not a hot woman who’s going to blow me I still really, really like you.”
Tyler Not Anderson adjusts his hipster glasses, smiling.
The interviewer nods a thank you at him.
“So, I would assume you call yourself a writer, correct?” the interviewer asks.
“Technically, yes. But I prefer the term, ‘word alchemist.’”
“Word alchemist?”
“Yes,” Tyler Not Anderson says.
“Well, for a ‘word alchemist,’ one might also say that all of your poems are resoundingly generic and similar. Not to mention overly sappy and sentimental. Almost like reading a Hallmark Card if you will. And all because there’s no emotional depth there in your work. Just flowery words that bob up and down on the surface like a freshly dropped turd inside a shallow toilet bowl. And you call yourself a writer-”
“Ah-hem…” says Tyler Not Anderson. “Word alchemist.”
“Yes… Of course… You call yourself a “word alchemist” and, as a “word alchemist,” you never explore the other range of human feelings and emotions. Such as anger, fear, sadness, frustration and so on and so on. You never strive to say anything new, or say it in a new way. You never take a stand for or against anything. You only repeat yourself in a literary voice that’s reminiscent of a 13-year-old girl’s diary. You just continually keep putting out the same old, poorly written tripe over and over and over again because you have found success in marketing it. You do nothing but sell romanticism to young girls who are so eager for it because they have raging hormones and because they don’t have romance themselves and because they’re also far too young to fully understand it. So, are you really a “word alchemist,” or are you nothing more than a brand. Like a cheap fucking box of chocolates that comes in a heart shaped box and that hints at love but, at the end of the day, really knows nothing about love at all?”
There’s a pause between Tyler Not Anderson and the interviewer.
Somehow, at some point during their exchange, Tyler Not Anderson’s crown has drooped to the left side of his head and has become crooked but with the interviewer staring at him, waiting for an answer, Tyler Not Anderson makes no attempt to straighten it.
“Um… Uh… Notes… Re-… Re-blogs… Re-notes… I mean, re-blogs………” says Tyler Not Anderson.
“I… I don’t get it. Are you trying to say that ‘notes’ and ‘reblogs’ and these sorts of things are what constitute good art?”
Tyler Not Anderson nods like a mentally challenged bobble-head doll.
“Yesterday I hearted a GIF on Tumblr,” says the interviewer, “of a cat licking itself and then another cat came outta nowhere and scared the cat licking itself, making the cat licking itself freak out and run away. It had 247,829 notes. So, according to you, all of those notes makes the GIF a ‘good piece of art’?” the interviewer asks Tyler Not Anderson.
“Uh… Ty… Typewriters…”
“What?” the interviewer asks. “Excuse me?”
“Typewriters…” Tyler Not Anderson responds.
“Typewriters?”
“Yeah, typewriters… The GIF of the cat licking itself and then the other cat coming outta nowhere and scaring the cat licking itself, making the cat licking itself freak out and run away, would’ve been better if it were made on a typewriter. Typewriters are, ya know… romantic.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Anderson-”
“Wait!” Tyler Not Anderson interrupts. “Hold on!”
Tyler Not Anderson farts.
He leans over and sticks his head in-between his legs and sniffs his own fart, inhaling it deeply. Almost as if he’s trying to suck it up into his brain where he can lock it up and keep it safe.
The interviewer looks on, grossed out and confused.
When Tyler Not Anderson raises his head back up and looks at the interviewer again, Tyler Not Anderson is smiling.
“I think I just wrote a haiku for me to type up tomorrow!” Tyler Not Anderson says excitedly.
The interviewer hangs his head and sighs.
He closes his notepad, places it down on the hallway floor and reaches behind his back. The interviewer pulls out a small, black pistol tucked into his belt. He places it on the floor and gently kicks it across the hallway floor towards Tyler Not Anderson.
Tyler Not Anderson stares at the small, black pistol in front of him. He doesn’t understand what the interviewer is implying by having kicked it in front of him
“Do everyone a favor,” the interviewer says. “Yourself included.”
The interviewer stands up and walks away down the hall.
He doesn’t wait for the elevator.
He takes the stairs.
Tyler Not Anderson sits there in the hall all alone, only accompanied by the small, black pistol.
He stares down at the pistol like it’s a small, black toothache.
4.
Traveling three times faster the speed of sound, Tyler Not Anderson never heard the final gunshot.
Instead of brains exploding out the back of his skull like most people would’ve had, only semen erupted out of the exit wound along with the bullet.
Tyler Not Anderson never wrote another poem ever again.
He was too dead to.
The really sad thing about it?
None of his “fans” ever even seemed to really notice he was gone.
With him gone they just turned to Lang Leav and Michael Faudet and all of the other millions and millions of authors who wrote exactly like Tyler Not Anderson did.
“If you want to be remembered, be fearless and do something different.
Even if it sucks.”
Someone should’ve told Tyler Not Anderson this.
But no one did.
And I’m really sad no one did.
Forgotten as soon as he was dead.
Not romantic…
© Calvero 2015
My first book of poetry, someday i’m going to marry Katy...
My first book of poetry, someday i’m going to marry Katy Perry, available HERE or by clicking on the cover.
"Initially, Calvero’s poetry can come off as brash and obnoxious. When you actually begin to pay attention to it, which you do almost immediately, it takes on a new level of complex emotion and theory. I have never before read poetry that so concretely grounds massive, universal ideals and emotions (sadness, love, confusion, general apathy, disdain). While sometimes bizarre and outlandish, it is just these characteristics that are necessary to make such large conclusions about life struggles so accessible.
The structure of Calvero’s poetry eases its readability; he brazenly attacks each page with pure, non-elitist sincerity through short lines and breezy diction.
This book is a triumph of the unorthodox and a model of the twists and turns in the plethora of functions of modern poetry.”
-Emily Griffin
