Poet Robot Review

The following is a completely serious review of the entirely serious upcoming collection Poet Robot by E. I. Wong. Check out his writing at https://notesfromanarcissist.wordpress.com/

28495754Hello, Reader

Good reviewers are completely objective.
They leave no trace of themselves in the review.
The only thing you should notice about a reviewer
is their name at the top of the thing.

A good reviewer would never rate a book higher
because it was signed personally to him or
sent to him as a review copy or
because the author “liked” things on the reviewer’s blog.

A good reviewer, of course, gets immediately to the point.
He does not write in a silly form to reference the material being reviewed.
He certainly doesn’t ramble on about other things
like the experience of waking up with an anime blow up doll
at five in the morning that seemed to take the shape of a certain poetic robot
and who promised sexual favors for…well… a good reviewer wouldn’t say what for, would he?
After all, he would never accept sexual favors.
Good reviewers are all virgins, of course.

A good reviewer certainly would point out some of the questionable font choices,
and take into account the fact that a good chunk of the material is available on the author’s blog,
but look at that robot’s eyes.
Don’t you just want to find that robot’s usb port and plug yourself in?
Look it’s saying “heart” already.
What could it hurt?

A good reviewer would mention the parts that made him
laugh,
made him
feel,
would admit that certain sections left him in awe of the, shall we say, Wong?
And would reiterate, even though already stated in the reviewers review of Tin Lion, that the story entitled
“To Describe Blow Jobs Artistically”
is one of the most astoundingly beautiful things arted.

A good reviewer knows lots of fancy terms to describe things.
Like arted. And pretty. And diegetic.
Yes, yes. So diegetic. Such control of “the craft”.
Such poetic chop suey.
These are all things a professional reviewer would say because they know.
What do they know?

That this book is good
and represents the views of San Francisco.

Cut off my arm!

Somewhere in the universe George Lucas is having sex in a bed under red sheets and a polka dot comforter. His forehead is sweaty — hot like the inside of a taunton with all the smells this image conjures. His red lightsaber is fully extended. It’s meeting a squishy, warm fate, being compelled by a tractor beam as it were. His Kunda stones are warm. Underneath his pastel turtleneck sweater his nipples are chaffing. Hard.

“Oh!” yells George, in his passion. “Someone, cut off my arm!”

His lover, submissive, money in her eyes, at his command makes a sword swinging motion at his arm after a moment’s pause.

“No. Good. No, make the lightsaber sound.”

She did, and he squealed like an Ewok.

“Tell me you’re my father!” George screamed.

She did.

“Noooooo!” moaned Mr. Lucas as he climaxed.

Ye High

People who say about yea high are a certain kind of people. Ever noticed that? There are like 3 or 4 people you’ve known that say it, and I bet you can picture them exactly. They all played baseball for some reason.

Can’t you just see them squinting, with a poopy grin, raising and lowering their hand till they finally say, “About yea high.” Actually I think it works better when they don’t give any indication of the height they mean and just say, “Yea high.”

And when you produce an album about being a college dropout you gotta be about Ye high.

Try Out Hate Poems! I Love Hate Poems!

Hot damn, you feel the power in all consuming words.

Bet you aren’t even thinking,

you think like the light sequence in 2001,

you’re in such a hurry to cough the words out of the back of your throat like their some sort of infection,

BRO:

they aren’t gonna to bite ya,

just slow down and take, a, breath,

On your way through Candyland you always take all the Chutes and Ladders,

So suddenly this thing you call consciousness and we call uncertainty is everywhere and not a person on the pale speck can check it,

your eyes light up because the hare is more fun than the tortoise,

and when you reach the finish line without so much alerting the referee’s that their stopwatch fingers should be primed and their cocktail glasses lowered you confound with – “it was crazy.”

Do you realize that there is a tipping point?

If everything is crazy,

suddenly nothings crazy,

except (maybe) the teller.

Do you understand how words can lose their weight?

It’s not like working out,

when you use a word so to a degree that “it is crazy”, you can see the muscle drooping, quivering and fading away in atrophy,

and the inverse is true… don’t we all wish for a little balance?

I know you want to share that feeling that courses through the landmass of your skin,

I know you’re at most Times nothing less than a cardboard box full of jelly donuts and military grade explosives.

I can always see it in your eyes in how they dart about

life, and the way you stand up and play with your hair,

sometimes I want to tell you that all I see are the big O’s and tight lines and that I can’t understand a word, but I think you know that,

anyway you sometimes say you do.

It’s funny, almost

like you know that you’re going too fast, that these words will never get what you want across, maybe

and maybe that’s why you raise your voice to fill the room spouting “crazy” like a broken sprinkler, over and over,

could it be that the words are just filler,

and that the meaning is actually hidden behind the words in another world

we hardly even realize is spinning just because we can’t see it.

Are you some sort of warlock tapping into the energies of another plane,

or are you just

bad

at explaining things?

***

LOve poems? try out hate poems! I love hate poems.

I’m going to be the best hate poet ever. I’m going to write the sonnet 130 of hate poetry, you dirty fuckfaces.

The Will of Jeff

Alegro finds himself in a hallway. It twists and it’s lit by deep purple lamps that swing like there’s wind. Darkness ascends like heat, and there’s no roof to hold it. Rather, an anti roof. Alegro spends a few hours trying to wrap his head around it.

Alegro finds himself in front of a door. It seems familiar. There’s a soft sweet feeling as of beautiful words, but also an aching of the eyes. The door opens and there’s a short roman buttress holding up a mixed drink. It has a little folded-like-a-tent card in front of it that reads: Cowardice w/ a touch of chives. Alegro moves forwards and takes the drink. The door shuts behind him. The drink tastes about how he’d expect. Tastes green, with a bite.

A squad of curtains open around Alegro. Alegro tastes stage fright in the back of his throat. It’s not at all like he imagined being on stage would taste like. Tastes halfway between Banana Orange and Purple Mountain’s Majesty. There’s so many buttons and pleasantly smiling faces. It’s exactly like he imagined being on stage would be like: the bright light of the control tower where little bug men play with switches stops you from seeing anything. He’d had that streamed to him before.

There’s a laughter around him, and Alegro takes a smile. He looks down and sees that his pants are wet. Alegro crumples to the floor. A bald man in a light blue button up shirt steps on to the stage, right over Alegro’s form. He looks 51, well preserved. His belt buckle looks like a million bucks.

“You want this End?”

“Yes,” says Alegro.

“And where would you like that End shipped? You can sign in for one click shopping. Would you like free two day shipping with that? We can give you free two day shipping if you sign up with us.”

“What are you talking about.”

“You can also take forty dollars off your order right now, easy peasy, if you sign up for a credit card through us. You’re over 18, aren’t you.”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent!”

The bald man bends his torso down to lower his head down to Alegro while keeping his legs completely still. His head seems to float around in Alegro’s suffering vision.

“Excellent!” he repeated.

Alegro backs away on his hands and knees.

“No. I don’t want it.”

“If you could just put in your shipping address here…even if you don’t want it, it’s really best if you put in your shipping information here, just for ease of use later…”

“No!”

Someone cheers from the audience, and that’s when Alegro notices that they have stopped laughing.

The creature before him bends upright to his full height. Then he cocks his head to the side.

“Perhaps you want a tablet?”

Alegro stands and runs to the front of the stage, and it is there that he is captured by the magnificence of the world before him. He can’t see any of it, but somehow he can feel it in his stomach. Some emotion he doesn’t understand begins to rise in his gut and makes his liver sing a happy, jaunty tune. Increasingly his heart skips a beat which he thinks may be unhealthy. Lowering from the rough wooden parapets above, a few hooks latch into his shoulders, piercing right through the bone, and lift him up in transcendental ecstasy!

“I am a free man,” he says as he rises. “I need no river to bring me happiness. I need not mechanical wings to bring good tidings, for good tidings are here. Indeed I am the messenger. I am the angel. I do not need your credit card information or your shipping information. Everyone gets free two day shipping! I see the path before me.”

“Would you like another drink?” says the bald man below.

“I think it’s your turn to drink this time, Jeff.”

Then the hooks rip through Alegro’s body and he falls to the ground in a bloody heap. He is saved only by the quick response of a team of medical drones and the will of Jeff.

Blog Blocked

And now, apropos of nothing:

– Dude this guy totally cock blocked me the other day. I was totally like horning in on his sister so he stuck a fork in my penis. Cock blocked!

– Oh man…coach won’t let me play in the game man. Dude! He burned my jersey bro! It’s so fucking stupid. Jock Blocked!

– God damn, you know I was really looking forward to wearing my sneakers today, but i had to just slip on my flip flops cause I got Sock Blocked!

– WWE has gone wayyyy down hill. It’s fucking garbage now! Fucking garbage! It just hasn’t been good since it got The Rock Blocked.

– “Aren’t you going to ring the doorbell?

“No. What, trying to Knock Block me?”

– “Dude! Don’t point your gun at that poor bird!”

“Hey! Watch it. Don’t Hawk Block me, bro!”

“What ever! You Glock Blocker!”

– I almost got famous you know. I almost did it through the sick shredding of my guitar, man, but I got totally Rock Blocked by this dude in a mohawk so I took a you know, one of those electric razors and totally Mohawk Blocked that bitch.

– Fuck! Dinner was gonna be so good. I was gonna stir fry up some veggies… unfortunately mom had another schizo episode and sold a bunch of our stuff! Again! So, sorry kids, we got Wok Blocked.

– Dude I totally wanted to go to the cradle of Christianity, but some asshole bought the last seat on the flight and Antioch Blocked me!

– “Hey dude what’s up-“

I hold up my finger to his lips and press firmly so he knows who the fricker is his boss.

“What are you doing?” he says through pressed lips.

“What does it look like? I’m finally Talk Blocking you!”

– UGH, don’t you hate it when someone snags that ebay item when you had the highest bet like three seconds before the end! Fucking Shop Blockers!

– Interesting dress, but I wouldn’t wear it. FROCK BLOCKED!!!

– “Dude you’re mom is so fat-“

“Allen!”

“Dad! It was gonna be funny!”

“Allen!”

“Fine…”

“Ha! Mock Blocked!”

– Can you check the time?

Me? No, I got Clock Blocked

– I was just trying to get myself sexually aroused, but I got erotic blocked.

– No Graffiti you pint sized criminals! You kindergartners have been chalk blocked!

– Dude…Leonard Nimoy just died….Spock Blocked.

– “What do you think of this one?”

“It’s a bit…idk. A bit old looking. Where was it made?”

“China.”

“Oh yeah, you don’t want that. That’s shoddy.”

“Thanks friend!”

“What else are friends for other than Schlock Blocking?”

– I won’t let you watch that movie. The Blind Side is just a white guilt movie that doesn’t actually truthfully portray the issue of race in America. Fuckin Sandra Bullocked.

– A writer thought about how to work Crockpot Blocked into a story and couldn’t find a satisfactory way. But then he did! Writer’s Block Blocked!

– I swiped my card in front of the scanner and unlocked the door into Finley. I held the door open for Kari Flocker. What was she thinking? I hadn’t even made up an excuse like that we could work on Japanese together or anything. Why was she going along with it then? Whatever. Just keep your cool.

I swipe my card again and the other little thingy at the stairs.

“Where do you live again?”

“In um the new dorm, you know.”

“Oh Teebo?”

“Yeah,” she throws her arm forward like she’s pointing at something, but of course there is nothing there. “That one.”

We climbed the stairs in silence. I check my phone. He’s in position.

We walk down the halls and I said hi to Nathan AKA Beezlebud. Kari gives a little wave even though she’s never met him. I unlocked my door and let us in.

“Oh…yeah excuse how shitty this place is cause we really need to vacuum. I really need to vacuum my roommate isn’t going to do it…”

“Oh…it’s fine.”

I close Tim’s wide open closet doors and face her. I shrug my shoulders.

“Soooo…” she said.

“Uh yeah.” I got out my phone and sent the text. “Uh yeah, make yourself at home or whatever.”

“K. What are we doing?”

“Um.” Come on come on come on come on come on come on.

Tim bust through the door and yelled, “Whoops!” with a playful smile wrapped around his face. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to be a Flocker Blocker!”

My Strawberry Milk Shirt

Tim just entered the room and put on a black T-shirt(after removing his other mostly black T-shirt).

“Oh yeah baby. This is my strawberry milk shirt. I.E. the shirt I wear when I drink strawberry milk.”

I look over to his desk and see a pink plastic container of strawberry milk.

“You’re a fucking psychopath. You need to be stopped.”

Tim tilts his head back maniacally and laughs.

SCENE END

Alegro

Alegro finds himself in a hallway. It isn’t well lit. It feels confined and red. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see red at all, but he feels it. The floor is bare wood, hard and old. It has felt the touch of feet before.

Alegro is wearing a white tracksuit, and he wishes he had chosen something else. He doesn’t know where he is, but he can feel that this moment is important to him. Perhaps not to you or to any one else, but this is an important moment for him.

His soul carries him down the hall. Zippers chafe his skin as he realizes he isn’t wearing any undergarments under the tracksuit. Now he really wishes he was wearing something else. Shadows stick to the walls of this hallway like wet sickly flies to the side of a Southern barn. Alegro’s shadow has left him.

To the left there is a door. It is painted with a strange insignia: almost an orange fireball with an excruciatingly thick black border. Alegro gets a feeling in his gut that it was a failed design from some shity design firm in a place far from here where there is a giant bookstore and where a man 10 times smarter than another man who wears a hat and yells things makes 10 times less money. His hand hovers over the doorknob. The doorknob itself looks old. This…house? Hotel? Wherever he is it looks like it was built in the 50’s or something. The shiny coating, that had once made this handle something for wives to boast about to their less fortunate friends, has all but peeled off revealing a dirty underbelly. The knob twists with a sick slur of profanity and then the door swings wide. Something shoves Alegro from behind and he falls face forwards.

Alegro finds himself on the grass. His hands caught his fall. The world is painted a sickly orange.

“Honey, you tripped,” says a strong male voice.

The presence besides Alegro grabs his arm and yanks him up harder than he would have liked.

“You’ll get your dress all grassy,” says the man.

Before him, there are five rows of folding chairs forming an isle. Even through the orange coating that has seemed to envelope this new world Alegro can see that the chairs are set up in a pattern: orange, black, orange, black… Alegro, finding that his feet have begun to move in order to keep up with the older man at his side, peers down the aisle in which he is quickly progressing.

It is just then that he notices that a band is playing. Trumpets and loud drums are banging some formless song made, no doubt, in a sixth grade class competition to create the best song in which the prize was a free ice cream bar of dubious quality. An invisible choral body chants, “Raw raw raw! Fight fight fight!” Alegro wonders what he has done to deserve such a fate.

At the end of the aisle awaiting him is a woman in a business suit holding an allen wrench which Alegro can’t help but notice is sporting Tim Allen’s face on its face and which she is tossing restlessly up and down in her hands. Around her neck she is wearing a tie furnished with images of little power tools and even calculators with tiny glow in the dark screens. Alegro shakes his head and tries to dig in his heels. The man’s grip tightens

“Don’t get cold feet now,” he whispers into Alegro’s ear.

Standing behind his wife…groom? to be is the most frightening figure. A dark, looming figure. A mass of a beast so formidable no one has ever heard it speak. The giant beaver in a football jersey is holding a bible and wearing a priestly pellegrina. He stands solemnly under an out of place white arch with formless eyes.

Alegro is pushed into place and is forced to face his future companion. Her face is foreign to him. In all manners is it foreign to him. Her eyes don’t seem as eyes but rather a screen through which a bevvy of numbers spew and refract.

The beaver produces the rings and hands them to Alegro. His heart beating out of its chest, Alegro accepts. Perhaps marriage won’t be such a bad thing. And no one would care if he got divorced, right? Everyone does it… Once, twice. Six times even is ok, right?

The beaver gestures to Alegro’s future bride’s outstretched hand. Alegro passively slips the ring on to the woman’s hand. Then with a second gesture the beaver invites the ring to be placed on Alegro’s own hand. Wowooweeezzaaa. Nails shoot through Alegro’s feet and he screams, but it was as if no one can hear him. He knew they could hear him. But he also knew they didn’t care. He was rooted. The beaver gleefully slips the ring over Alegro’s trembling finger, and for a minute the beaver is close enough to smell. Like an electric tractor.

This woman steps closer and lifts the orange veil from Alegro’s face. And though the world is no longer masked in orange, it appears just as terrible. Alegro bites his lip, and a touch of blood seeps out of his flushed skin.

Just then a trumpet sounds and a dozen cheerleaders in their short black, orange trimmed skirts parade out into the audience and start to make out with each other while the beaver reads from an Israeli postmodern novel.

Huh. Well that wasn’t so bad.