will you facebook marry me?
July 7, 2008
In a bold move, Neil Kramer and I have gotten married on Facebook. I told Neil I’d stay with him for a week, but then I am moving on to someone else.
I’d love to start a little dealio where I marry someone new on Facebook every week or two, but I need your help. Will you Facebook marry me? If you’re game, lemme know. But I am warning you, I don’t cook. Or do dishes. Or listen attentively. Or trim errant body hairs. Or put out.
And you need to be prepared to walk into our bedroom only to find me fondling myself. That’s just how I roll.
Also, I hate cuddling. Don’t even say the word cuddle around me, or I’ll leave you at the altar.
I’ll marry men. I’ll marry women. I’ll marry anything in between as long as it is human, is not underage and has a Facebook account. (You do have to smell good, though. Even I have some standards.)
While we are married, you will have nonexclusive access to me through IM, e-mail and my blog. OK, so you get that access to me without marrying me, but if you marry me you can address me through IM, e-mail and my blog with cutesy married people names, like “Sugar,” “Honey” and “Wifey.” (I’d prefer you NOT address me the ways my actual husband addresses me, which include such sweet nothings as “Meat,” “Neuticles” and “Pooter Bottom.”)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go IM Neil and see if he needs his feet rubbed after his long day of work.
Comments
85 Responses to “will you facebook marry me?”
Got something to say?
-
This work is licensed under Creative Commons.
If you don’t credit Dana (by using her full name and preferably by linking back to the appropriate post) for however you copy, distribute, transmit or adapt her words, you are being bad. And naughty. And she will have her servant monkeys hunt you down and cut your hands off so you can never copy, distribute, transmit or adapt anyone’s work again and call it your own.
(Unless, of course, you were to use your butt cheeks to manipulate your keyboard with the copying, distributing, transmitting, adapting and whatnot, but Dana fortunately has only met one person whose butt cheeks are that talented. He could play a major third on a piano using nothing but his ass. She kids you not.).
-
Sign me up! I love cooking and cleaning for people, no joke. And I work hard to keep myself smelling generally clean, with a light zest of lemongrass or punch of ylang ylang for fun.
Blythe, yay! I can’t wait to say I do to you. And a punch of ylang ylang for fun? Super sweeeeet.
What shall our last name be? Let’s pick a new one from thin air, something like Moon or Crow or Funnelcake.
OK, maybe not Funnelcake.
Well, with the last name I’ve been dragging behind me the past 20-some years, anything sounds appealing, even Funnelcake.
I will think on it and see if I come up with anything particularly fitting, but I’d be good with any of your suggestions, too.
Blythe Funnelcake.
Dana Guthrie Funnelcake.
Me likey. It’s a yummy last name.
Damn. Now I’m hungry, and there is no funnelcake in sight. (Or in smell range; it is one of those delicacies you smell before you spy.)
OK. I’m counting down the days ’til wedded bliss!
I have some Lifesavers Fruit Splosions, but I am guessing they won’t foot the bill. You can still have some if you want them.
Listen: We need to iron out the details. What day? Where? Who’s invited? Are we writing vows or just going with the standard ones? Who’s giving you, or me, away? Who will be our flower girl? And can we please please please have a sans serif font on our invitations?
Oh, Dana, details, details…
Sans serif: check.
Flower girl: ??? One of our furry creatures? All my little cousins are grown up. Yours?
Giving you away: Up to you–Neil?
Giving me away: Sean Connery
(Can we both be given away? Suddenly I feel discarded.)
Vows: An interpretive dance of our relationship, perhaps?
Thanks for the Fruit Splosions, but now I have a sugar high that can only be cured by something meaty. Off to hunt.
p.s. You are the one currently married; you pick the day and I’ll be there!
p.p.s. Oh, I’m such a home-wrecker!
see this is how you get two comments from me in one morning: I found this in my google reader and have come over to propose for one single reason: the word cuddle is the ugliest, suckiest word in existence, reminds me of slackjawed cows chewing…………we say snuggle at my place, much better methinks.
ooops, i can see my proposal will be rejected, when i scanned the post again you don’t do close body contact going nowhere either……..I got to do that, got two wee boys *grin*
Dude I will totally facebook marry you. Just let me know my place in line, you frisky little pussy cat.
Blythe, you ARE a home wrecker. As far as the date is concerned, how about Monday? Seems like a good day to get hitched. And we can make it a media event ~ we can announce it on RWP or something. Maybe even write a collaborative poem about marriage as our RWP poem for the week. Oh, what do you think about that?
Of course, we can also do the interpretive dance, but I am warning you: My dances are oh so silly. We can’t have camcorders rolling while we are dancing. You look like a good dancer. I can tell from your photos. For this, I am grateful. We must have different skill sets to be good partners for one another.
I would love for our critters to be our flower girls. I know my hamster would be down with that.
And also, I know you are sad that Sean has to give you away, but there comes a time in every woman’s life when it comes to this. Sean will always be your Sean. But you are mine now. All mine.
Jo, I hate snuggle, too. I still like you, but we have to agree to disagree about that word. And listen: You are next. I am so Facebook marrying you once this thing with Blythe runs its course.
Laura, OK. Let’s do this thing. We need to do some careful planning about the date. I am thinking sometime in August. Do you have any August date you particularly favor? My birthday is Aug. 11, so that day is out. I don’t want you combining my birthday lovin’ with our anniversary lovin’. That would be a ripoff.
Why is it only women want to marry me? And hot ones at that? I always suspected I was a chick magnet.
Rolling around laughing. You’re not selling yourself to men so well, methinks, that whole not putting out thing…..see to me that’s a boon; don’t get me wrong, I love sex, love it, but most of the time I’m too damn tired for even a hip thrust. This could be a low maintenance thang…..you write in your lil corner, I’ll write in mine…..bliss.
Dana: It’s a date! Yes, let’s do collaborative poetry to commemorate our marital bliss.
My kittens will probably not behave during the ceremony—they’ll be great bug-hunters though, and we can tell them they’re part of the house party. But my lab will be great. She’s very obedient.
We should dance, no matter how silly. Maybe not during the vows—because the sacred vows of marriage are nothing to joke around about—but dancing is mandatory. And I am so not a good dancer. I just post all the pictures that make me look like one.
Hey, don’t forget, I’m not yours until Monday! (I think Mr Connery & I will reconcile after you and I get our marriage annulled… he’s a good rebound man.)
The best quote ever from Jo:
I love sex, love it, but most of the time I’m too damn tired for even a hip thrust.
Awesome. That’s so awesome. You know, Jo, I didn’t learn about hip thrusting until about three years into having sex. Seemed impolite to do, as a girl and all. Then I read Ragtime, I think it was, and there’s a scene where the main character sees some Eskimo women thrusting back during sex (and I believe is put off by this sight). I had an a-ha moment in which I realized that was something I could do, too.
So now I hip thrust even when I am tired. I’m making up for those three years of stupid sex.
OK, Blythe. We need to get to writing our collaborative poem. Via Twitter, maybe? Or would you prefer a more private place to set up our co-po writing shop? I could add myself back to The Poetry Collaborative and we could do it over there if you would like.
Your kittens are going to kill my hammie. How on earth is this marriage going to work out?
Sacred vows of marriage. Tell me about it. That’s why I am FB marrying people one at a time. Out of respect.
Oh, so you are *married* to Mr. Connery. I thought he was your dad. Silly me.
Hmmm… I’m not sure I’m brave enough for po-tweeting yet… you rejoining the PoCo would work great for me, or we could use old-fashioned email.
The kitties will be good. They’re mammal-friendly. They love my parents’ teacup pekingese, which is roughly the size and appearance of a large hamster. Plus they have soft paws on. (But bottom line — the marriage won’t work out, but why worry about details?)
Mr Connery and I are not currently married or engaged. But he’s been pursuing me for a while. In my dreams. (So no, he’s not my father; he’s Indiana Jones’s. Not the traditional give-the-bride-away man, but I figured we weren’t sticking too tightly to tradition.)
Sniggeling like crazy at your eskimo woman story and as for hip thrusting, impolite, see this makes me mad, why does nobody tell us these things, leave us to figure it out for ourselves (I got my education from my grandmother’s ‘dirty’ books, ie Harold Robbins, Jackie Collins, kept under her mattress……oh boy, the dana confessional, I’ll just tiptoe away now *grin*).
Blythe, we could also write it here in the comments. I’ll start and we can see if it works. (Of course this will be a draft that we hone later on.) How does switching lines back and forth sound? I can start with the title, then you can take line one and we can alternate:
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
(Now it’s your turn. Go!)
Jo, I know! Tell me about it! I read lots of Cosmos, too, and nary a word in there about hip thrusting. And how’s a 14-17 year old supposed to figure things like that out?
See why I don’t do Confession Tuesday? These divulgences are best left for the comments section of my blog.
When you said you read a lot of “Cosmos,” at first I thought you meant the book (and TV series) by Carl Sagan and was wondering how on Earth (or beyond, as is apropos if Carl is involved) hip thrusting played into that.
Astronomy IS pretty hot, I guess.
No, Andre. Not even close. My dear silly friend, I meant Cosmopolitans. And not as in the drink. As in the plural form of the women’s
pornmagazine.That would be a women-on-women
pornmagazine, to be exact.What I mean is, it’s homoerotic. Don’t let any woman convince you she’s reading that thing for the articles.
Dana: Just saw this and will be back to poem soon. Cannot poem on empty stomach.
Blythe. Come back! Do it!
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
(It’s so awesome to co-po with you again!)
(Things in parentheses are not part of the poem, as we know.)
(Just reiterating the rules in case we’ve forgotten them.)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
(Yeah!)
(I remember, but it’s never a bad idea to remind me.)
(Last word in last line could be “an” if necessary, I think. Does that go along with the rules?)
Oh man, the pressure’s on. It’s like playing Scrabble. Hey, Scrabble would be a good prompt for RWP: Play a game of Scrabble, then use all your words in a poem. I’m so doing that promt over there! Anyway …
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, I have to mention
Wait, I want to take back my last line, or at least revise it. Hold on.
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies
(That’s better. I didn’t like how the “I have to mention” called attention to the narrator instead of the scene and moved away from the immediacy we’d established in the first five lines.)
I like chubby / hiccuppy, by the way. Nice rhyme skillz. And also your press / flesh in the first line. You are lighting the whole poem up with your glowing internal rhymes. They’re like Brite-Lites. Or fireflies.
So things before the poem also constitute non-poem, eh? And it’s probably the more appropriate place to ramble about non-poem things. Like to tell you I’m eating fancy chocolates while we write. What are you up to? (And yes, lots of pressure… I’d rather talk about chocolates though. And Scrabble. Nice prompt idea! Collaborative idea: play scrabulous on fb, and both people use those words!)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, I have to mention
the attendants, and their involuntary
No! I love your line but it’s based on my screwed up bastard line that I left on the street to fend for itself because it shames me as a person.
Can you do a do-over and use the “rice thingies” line instead? I promise we can work the attendants and their involuntary whatevers in later.
Please, please, pretty please.
I am at work. Not eating anything. About to leave.
And wow, I mean wow!!! Play scrabulous on fb, and both people use those words. What a stroke of genius. I can’t take it. I am too excited to fall asleep now.
Oh, I missed that part. Yes, let’s backtrack. Just a sec.
Dang. That’s a harder line to use. Do you need to go home? It might take me most of your commute time to come up with something brilliant with the rice thingies. Not that I don’t like the rice thingies line. It’s good detail for the setting and it tells us something about the narrator, that s/he would call them rice thingies.
OK, I’m working on the next line. For a few moments.
Also, you are such a generous co-po’er. I almost said nice but I know that wouldn’t sit well.
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy the night before
(Not as hard as I thought. I like it. But I kinda cheated and left you to do the hard work of figuring out what happens to the rice thingies. Sorry.)
I’m home now. Was drivin’ b4.
Let’s see what kind of damage I can inflict:
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy the night before,
were swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
(Ha! Take that. And passive voice to boot. Breaking all the poetry-writing rules, that we are.)
Yay for getting home! Do you always have to work so late??
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy the night before,
were swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who were half-mad with hunger and heat
(Are the h’s too much?)
(Ha. As if any of this poem is not too much.)
(Still, tell me if the h’s are too much. [And how one is really supposed to write the plural form of the letter h.])
(Also, was that last line too predictable or cliche? I feel like it was kinda predictable, which is not what we want.)
(I kind of like it. The H’s reinforce the word hungry. H, H, Hungry.)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
( I found and corrected a tense problem. Do my changes look OK to you?)
No, the last line you provided was awesome.
(”digress… dress…” you write to impress!)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to a chartreuse bride
(Fun random fact: chartreuse is the most visible color to the human eye.)
(This is getting trickier and trickier with each passing line.)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to a chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog
(At first I was proud of how hard I made it for you… then realized… it just makes it even harder for me… also… changed an “a” to a “the,” is that OK?)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
(Wow. A filmy white dress. Nice. Let’s see if I can keep pace with your awesome line-writing skills.)
(Do you like how my blog has gone completely internal? It’s all about you, me and this poem right here, right now. No other commenters. No new posts. YouMe. And that’s how I like it.)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
(Barbie has some fabulous filmy wedding gowns, by the way. Just look here: http://tinyurl.com/5goznc)
(Also, I did two lines. Couldn’t resist the Ken reference. Although I believe all Kens are confused. But the narrator apparently does not hold the same opinion as me. Is it OK that I did two lines?)
(Do you think my lines drag the piece into some silly absurd place? And if so, do you like it?)
[...] a braggart, and a hypocrite, not necessarily in that order), but I wound up napping and writing a wedding poem with Dana instead. Such is [...]
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
(And now I MUST go to bed before I turn into a pumpkin, but I will do my best to come back to this bleary-eyed and full of sleepy words in the AM. Sorry to have to cut out before our masterpiece is finished.)
(Only because you are my bride-to-be will I allow you two lines in this work, this one time. Normally I am a stickler for the rules. We have gotten kind of silly, but I am 110% OK with that. You?)
(Big
with my last aside re: rules.)
I LOVE the coveralls line. I will wait to proceed until tomorrow we meet again, my friend (and sexay lova).
And, RULES BE DAMNED! Especially self-imposed ones.
Gee Whiz, Dana, you r HOT Hot! There is hardly no room for me to say CONGRATULATIONS to you and to Neil! You go, um, people!
And, uh, what are you doing with what’s-his-name? L——-k….
And I loved seeing the wedding poem materialize right before my eyes…. (I hope I am not interrupting).
Joyce, we go alright. You are next. Be my 6th or so bride! Will you Facebook marry me?
Who is L—k??? Lick? Look? Leek?
Oh, LoveShack. We’re chillin’. He’s all good with my FB trysts.
And you are not at all interrupting. These comments be for everyone. I like that you are seeing the poem. We’re sharing it in its entirety (whatever that may be) for this week’s Read Write Poem contribution. But folks like you, in the know, can see it all develop here first.
Blythe, I can’t stop:
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that
(I am submitting this comment on Blythe’s behalf, since Wordpress.com comments were all fouled up this morning and she couldn’t submit this herself.)
* * *
(Hey Joyce! Welcome to our co-po fiasco.)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest
(Now it’s my chance to ask if you’re OK with what I’ve done—not only adding an extra half-line, but infringing on your nice, musty line as well. My thought was just too long, and it didn’t work well to move part down to the next line. Let me know. Oh, and I changed the line break to keep with the four-line stanzas. But it can be changed back.)
(This would be a tad easier if we were in the same timezones… now I’ll have to wait until tonight to even peek at it again, but I couldn’t resist adding on!)
(Will they get the filmy Barbie dream dress? Will they not?? Will the narrator ever move from the moment in time where we froze him, his hand on his bride’s chubby chubby cheek, his priest collapsed on the floor? What does he really think of her dress and her chartreuse skin? Will the attendants go stark raving mad and eat the incapacitated priest? What other plot twists will Dana come up with that I can’t even conceive of? This is what I’ll be thinking about all day while at work.)
Blythe, I would never have thunk of the slippery eel of panic. You are amazing. I have to think on the next line apiece and also on the issues you’ve raised. Thanks for keeping me in check on the quatrains.
This whole process we are using was inspired by that co-po book. I think we should send it to the editors of that book when we’re done, just to say “Look what you’ve made us devolve into, you big co-po pushers.” I think Nick Carbo is one of those editors, and he friended me on Facebook, so I can now bother him with things he won’t give a rat’s ass about.
[...] awesome co-poem developing in the comments here: 10Jul08 Will You Facebook Marry Me? [...]
I can’t believe you’re cheating on Neil already. And in public. Have you no shame?
Bloody brilliant poem, it totally rocks, you should post it on the blogs.
Dave, I can do whatever I want. His opening words to me today on IM were “Don’t be a baby.” With love like that’s, cheating’s no sin. Damn, I am talking in Twitter-speak again.
And couplets, or some such shit.
Jo, I think for RWP Monday (the date Blythe and I are getting married), we will share the process of the poem on my blog as well as the final poem itself and cut and paste the process on Blythe’s blog along with the final poem there, too.
I even had this zany idea that all the RWP participants could be our wedding guests, and their gifts to us would be to critique the poem and/or the process. I wonder what Blythe will think about that.
I just feel I should say, as the minister invited to officiate this Monday marriage, I am not one bit flabby, and have never folded on myself like an accordian. However, toppling over, that could happen. Just thought I should say…
Great poem, by the way! And the scrabble thing, I’ve done that with my elementary poetry students. It’s fun. For extra fun, you should paint or draw a picture to accompany your scrabble poem!
Sorry for the interruption in the co-po flow!
Like a book, Jill. Like a book, not at all like an accordion.
Why don’t you write that idea of yours up as an RWP prompt? Include the FB scrabble option, too, in addition to the regular old scrabble option. The good co-po writing times should ensue.
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body
whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of.
(I did 3.5 lines. My bad. Had to be done. Feel free to back up to whatever point you want and overwrite the mess I made.)
(P.S. We are getting married late Sunday night. We need to make plans and invites guests, etc. Where are you, lover?)
And now, for the 69th comment…
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body
whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of. But after the requisite
ten-hour charge your instruction manual mentioned,
relief flooded through me, engorged me, like Mom’s
Thanksgiving dinner filling and warming my alimentary canal
when your eyes fluttered open, your lips parted, and you
(I am loving this. I did 4.5 lines. One of us cheats, and it prompts the other to cheat more. But again, I felt it had to be done. However, if you want to, feel free to backtrack on mine as well. I promise to try to get back down to one-liners [although, with our schedules not matching up, maybe we should stick to a few lines at a time.])
(I love the balls reference. Made me think about the body. Thus my addition.)
(I know. So much to do. I am about to run off again, but should be back about 10:30 or 11:00 my time, and will stay up however late making preparations with you.)
(”Making preparations.” Heh. It’s funny how when you’re getting married, you can put almost anything in quotation marks and make it sound dirty.
Or is that just my mind?)
p.s. Oops. I think I missed a comma after canal. Or maybe there is a much better way to punctuate/structure what I added? Do what feels right. I trust your judgment.
“Do what feels right.” Heh.
OK, I have to work on this. In the meantime, check my sidebar for my wedding present to you. I made the logo myself, even. It’s a little you and a little me. I am the P, since I think I am taller. You are the C because you are cuter.
Click through and tell me if this seems like an OK stomping ground for our collaborative poems.
It’s almost perfect. The only mix-up: I’m the P because I’m taller, and you’re the C because you’re cuter.
Perfect for our collaborative work, my foxy lady-friend.
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body
whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of. But after the requisite
ten-hour charge your instruction manual mentioned,
relief flooded through and engorged me — like Mom’s
Thanksgiving dinner filling and warming my alimentary canal —
when your eyes fluttered open, your lips parted, and you
began to emit a whoooooooo sound not unlike dank air
winding through a French horn’s valve tube
(I was tempted to end it, but I did not. Hey, if we don’t finish it by our wedding, what do you think of letting our attendees take a stab at polishing it off with their suggested final lines? Not that I want it to come to that. I’m just sayin’, in case we keep drawing this thing out as we seem to be, we might want to have a backup plan. I mean, at some point we’re going to need to get our makeup on and squeeze into our gowns, etc., so we might run out of writing time between now and the big event.)
(Apparently, I have to wear heels, too, since you seem to think you are taller than me. I am also bringing the strap-on weeenay. You can bring one, too, if you would like. The more strap-on weeenays the better, as far as I’m concerned.)
(Oh and also, I changed up the punctuation and altered a word in one of your lines. It’s my right, seeing how you went to town writing more than a quatrain all by your lonesome. Is this what collaboration is going to be like once we’re married? Me sulking in the corner while you have all the writing funz?)
(Love ya!)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body
whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of. But after the requisite
ten-hour charge your instruction manual mentioned,
relief flooded through and engorged me — like Mom’s
Thanksgiving dinner filling and warming my alimentary canal —
when your eyes fluttered open, your lips parted, and you
began to emit a whoooooooo sound not unlike dank air
winding through a French horn’s valve tube.
We locked eyes, you smiled a bit, and said,
(Back to just one line! Let’s wrap this baby up so we can get on to wedded bliss. We can do it! And if we don’t, I’m totally good w/ having guests help us out.)
(Sorry I missed you last night. Fell asleep on the couch w/ computer on lap. Woke up at 2am or so and felt quite out of it. Slept way too much last night, but dang, it felt good.)
(I don’t know what I was thinking when I said I’m the taller one. We are obviously not bound by the constraints of reality here. You be taller. Are you OK w/ me being an inch or two shorter than you and not wearing heels? I hate wearing heels. But I will for you if you think we ought to gaze lovingly into each others’ eyes at eye level. Or I’ll stand on a thick volume of poetry, or something.)
(I like what you did. I thought about doing it myself but was too lazy. I mean, in a rush. So no, I will totally share in the fun and in the dirty work once we’ve tied the knot.
)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body
whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of. But after the requisite
ten-hour charge your instruction manual mentioned,
relief flooded through and engorged me — like Mom’s
Thanksgiving dinner filling and warming my alimentary canal —
when your eyes fluttered open, your lips parted, and you
began to emit a whoooooooo sound not unlike dank air
winding through a French horn’s valve tube.
We locked eyes, you smiled a bit, and said,
whoooooooo, whoooooooo, whoooooooo,
which of course I interpreted as I. Love. You.
(I call end, if you think that seems like a reasonable stopping point.)
(I am sorry you fell asleep with your computer on your lap. If I had been there, I would have tucked you in. Do you feel any better today?)
(Will you stand on a volume of John Donne’s poetry, since we love him so? I want him to be there, and he might as well be put to good use.)
(I found Crash, by the way. I know you had a copy, but I felt bad that I had lost mine.)
I really like where this is ending, but I don’t know about the quatrain issue. Can we add something like,
and I reached out to caress your inexplicably chubby face.
or something like that? Or does that tie too much of a pretty bow on it?
Or can you find a way to turn off my OCD so it doesn’t bother me?
I do feel a bit better today… less exhausted for sure. Still have an achy throat and stuffy nose… and a fever. Or maybe I’m just getting all hot and bothered thinking of you…
Are you gonna be OK? Need me to hold your hair while you puke? “in sickness and in health…”
And yes, I’ll definitely stand on Donne. I like the thought of him being there too.
Curses! You and the consistency and the whatnot. (Of course you are right about the form. How about what I propose below.)
(They should rewrite that line to say in sickness and in barfing. It has a nice ring to it.)
What Happens at the Altar Stays at the Altar
I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book
and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,
who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,
I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,
and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body
whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of. But after the requisite
ten-hour charge your instruction manual mentioned,
relief flooded through and engorged me — like Mom’s
Thanksgiving dinner filling and warming my alimentary canal —
when your eyes fluttered open, your lips parted, and you
began to emit a whoooooooo sound not unlike dank air
winding through a French horn’s valve tube.
We locked eyes, you smiled a bit, and said,
whoooooooo, whoooooooo, whoooooooo,
which of course I interpreted as I. Love. You.
And I, dear, whoooooooo, whoooooooo, whoooooooo, you too.
YAY! Finished!
whoooooooo, whoooooooo, whoooooooo, Dana!
Blythe, this has all been better and more fun than my wedding to LoveShack. I am so stoked! Can we put this on the Poetry Collaborative site?
Claro!
This has been my most fun wedding as well. Above and beyond.
[...] if you’re interested in seeing how this whole thing progressed, check out the comments section on this post, where Dana and I wrote the [...]
[...] To see how this poem unfolded, go here. [...]