Overwhelmed by the kind responses to last week’s post, Hosho McCreesh is graciously offering his last two remaining author’s copies of For All These Wretched, Beautiful, & Insignificant Things So Uselessly & Carelessly Destroyed. I’m going to match those two, which means FOUR copies are up for grabs.
For your chance to win a copy, please enter the WRITE YOUR BEST FAKE HOSHO McCREESH POEM TITLE CONTEST in the comments section here. The contest will end at noon on Thursday and the four lucky winners will be announced shortly after.
To get you inspired, here are the first five poem titles from the collection:
- It Was Paris, Those Rainy Old Streets, The Soft Glow of Wrought-Iron Lamps, The Sun Setting Behind Grey-Faced Buildings, The City Vibrating With Some Kind of Romantic, Sad Song . . .
- This Last March of the Human Animal, This Fumbling Procession of Mankind, This Dying, Poisoned Realm of Inhumanity, & in the Balance of Our Assembled Millennia This is All We’ve Really Accomplished . . .
- This Dizzying, Senseless Place, This Place Where We Simply Waste Time While Looking for a Better Way to Die . . .
- We Are Forced to Search Out Small Fires, a Little Light, Some Warmth, & A Little Bit of Madness . . .
- This Angry House of Bone That Someday Will, Again, Be Ash . . .
The burned out, rage filled stare that haunted the face of a Brazilian girl, desperate to sell sewing thread in Rio…
WHERE DO WE TURN WHEN THE VERY STREETS ARE MAD AND OUR FORTUNES AND FATES SPIN UPON A BROKEN CONFEDERATE SNARE DRUM HEAD TUNED TO A FREQUENCY OF HOPELESSNESS AND PAIN THAT ONLY BLIND DOGS CAN HEAR? WHERE THEN DO WE FIND OUR WRETCHED SOLACE AND FLEETING RELIEF? HOW FAR THE SUN SINKS TO TOUCH OUR RAGGED TONGUES AND BOIL OUR MURKY BLOOD.
Although Her Breasts Hung Down to her Waist She Craved the Warm Afternoon Sun on her Areolae in the Cheap Hotel Room of her Seclusion that Dreadful Winter
There Exists a World Not Much More Than a Spinning Top Set to Motion by a Petulant Child, It Still Spins On, & I am Certain Someone Somewhere is Laughing…
and the lonesome whistle whines on another train headed southwest, back to the desert, back to the emptiness of space and sound and all things material and immaterial, leaving a long cloud of smoke that stretches east through the highlands of the rocky mountain forest, dreadfully cold like the impending heartache that squeezes the furthest depths of my battle-weary soul
& So We Wake, Heavy with Dream, Blurred by Desires That Will Dissipate in Daylight, Haunted by the Glimpsed Tomorrows of a Thousand Forking Paths…
The Languid Song of Those Four Men Living In Our Closet and Sneezing On My Blankets, Plus The Silk They Procured From Our Asses. . .
I want to read the fake poem associated with misener’s fake title.
Here’s my title:
It Was This Dizzying March Forced to Search Out Bone, Those Fumbling Senseless Lights Again, The Soft Dying Place Where We Simply Warm Ash, The Sun Poisoned A Little, & The Romantic Balance of Madness, Gone . . .
This Soggy Bench, This Tired, Old Pine, Where I Once Scratched Your Name, Where Indifferent Men Sit, Now Numb To Your Grooves…
Andrew- I’ll write it today, in Hosho’s honor.
Guess what? EVERYONE wins! Because Hosho’s book should be read by all.
molly.gaudry@gmail.com
That email address is there for all of you to send me your snail mail addresses. Once I’ve got them, I’ll place the order. Hooray!
Just wanted to thank everyone for the interest…hope everyone likes the book!
hosho + molly = wicked awesome.
thanks so much! yay!
You’re welcome! Yay!
seriously, you guys just made my night. thanks so much, hosho and molly!
Molly gets pretty much all the credit on this–she made it all happen. So my thanks go out to her–for the interest initially, and for making the contest happen.
& you lucky winners out there–if you haven’t sent her your address, do so, as per above. We’ll get the books out soon-ish.
Damn it.
Found out about this too late.
But, I already have the book. And it’s fantastic. So cool that all these folks are getting this killer book. You’re all gonna love it!
Here’s my entry anyway, just because I always wanted to pretend I was Hosho McCreesh (one day I hope to skin him and wear a Hosho suit around town).
My Hosho McCreesh faux poem title:
The Pencil.