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Archive for the 'Savant Collection' Category

A Poem via Romantic Savant

Tuesday, April 2nd, 2013


Tom C. Hunley

You’re not sure whether or not to divorce your spouse,
so you go for a walk to think-think-think, because
you’re a thinker. A pair of bluebirds fly in unison, sing
in unison. They shoot straight up in unison and then,
as if in a wordless, songless agreement to disagree, one
arcs sharp right, the other veers left at a mirror angle,
and because you’re a Romanticist at heart, you decide
you have to break your marriage in half.
But you’re part Postmodernist, too, so you think
maybe the birds are being ironic, and you think
staying and leaving are really just two ways
of doing the same thing. And since you’re also
part Modernist, you pray, a throwback to your latent
Victorianism. You ask God what you should do, and
before He has a chance not to answer, you tell Him
you don’t believe in Him anymore, though at moments
like this, you wish to God you still did.

Tom C. Hunley


Three things.

First, I absolutely love this poem. It arrived in my email seconds ago and — already! — here I am posting it for you.  It is, after all, poetry month.

If you are someone who just doesn’t quite get the poetry thing, maybe this will help you wrap your pretty little head around it.  I mean, married or not married or previously married or not previously married … well it doesn’t really matter, does it now?

And is it really *just* a commentary on marriage?

You still get it, don’t you? You get it, you GROK! I know you do!  Because this says everything about the human adventure: our redundant foibles, our silly sweetness, our ironic dichotomies. And I would argue that this lovely poem also speaks to the markings of what I call “God’s Fingerprints” on even the most intellectual and scientific of us, whether we know it or not.  And yes … I do see these Fingerprints often.  And on whom you’d  least expect, or, in some cases, suspect. 🙂

Secondly: Yes! I’m adding Romantic Savant (who turned me on to Mr. Hunley and his beautiful poetry) to my Phone Sex Savant collection. It’s been a very long time since Zen Fetish has had a new Savant,  and to make room for him I needed to get into that damn display case to dust off and rearrange my tried and true most loyal Savants.  I’ve been a neglectful collector.  The dust was so thick in that display case, all of my Savants got a blow job and they didn’t even know it.

And he will be knighted sometime soon, when you will learn more about him. I expect the rest of you Phone Sex Savants to move over, make room and play nice.

And last but certainly not-in-the-least least … more about Mr. Hunley. His books are available here, and I’m particularly desiring this one. Who’s going to buy it for me (paperback, please)?

He is the Director of Steel Toe Books and also teaches poetry classes (*swoon*) at Western Kentucky University.

Life is good. So deliciously and delightfully good good good. And I am a happy happy happy girl.

xo, Angela

… and then he said

Wednesday, September 26th, 2012

So I was twatting* around at Twitter, when someone re-tweeted something by someone else, which I found amusing.  Quite witty, in fact.   So I clicked on this fellow’s name to check him out.  Oh and he was fabulous.  Simply, divinely fabulous.  So I started following him.  Which is how Twitter etiquette kinda-sorta works.

Low and behold, he quickly followed me back which pleased me ever so much-ly.  There in the midst of all those twatters* just twatting* away we exchanged sundry pleasantries.  Which, again, is how Twitter etiquette kinda-sorta works.  It was nice.  It was good.

I was living in a Twittering world.  And I am a Twittering girl.  (Think Madonna. You’ll get it.)

Now I was being a good girl, because on Twitter I feel a girl should mind her Ps and Qs … being as authentically well-rounded as she can, while discreetly** and prudently (but only occasionally) giving a peek up her skirt.

Then I get this private DM (direct message) from my new friend:

You are such a great writer! I really admire your work.

Of course I answered him, because I am always the epitome of polite behavior (don’t you know?):

Thank you.  That is very kind of you.

Of course I was dying to know … who? what? when? where? why?  What had this sweet gentleman read that caused him to reach out to me?  But a girl can’t seem to eager now, can she?  So I thought we were done.  Then he DMs me again:

If it’s okay to ask, how did you decide to follow me? I’ve known your writing for a while now and was struck seeing your name in my feed.

Well, I’m a polite girl by nature and would have replied no matter what he’d said.  BUT “I’ve known your writing for a while” really really really caught my self  interest. You bet it did.  Any writer likes to know they are noticed in any which way.  So I answered:

Someone re-tweeted you, I checked you out.  And I like your style.  It’s that simple.  But I’m hardly the superstar you make me out to be.

Of course, dear reader, I was absolutely glowing.  Writers eat this stuff up!  But you *do* see how insouciant my response was.  Don’t you?  He had to be impressed with my ultra cool, devil-my-care, nonchalant geniality.  Don’t you think so? Then he writes …

Well, as a man married to a blindingly hot cuckoldress (with all the fascinations that implies), you do have a certain celebrity status.

Mother Fucker!

(Oops.  My halo just slipped and there went my Gracious-Goddess patina right out the window.)

But I can’t help it.  Not only did this guy (who is very cute, by the way) trust me with his naughtiest secret of secrets …

… apparently amongst men who are “married to … blindingly hot cuckoldress[es]” I “have a certain celebrity status.”

What a sweetie.

There was more conversation which isn’t of interest here, so we will leave that between me and him.   I’m smitten, I’m forever his friend and he is just a darling, darling (very smart) man.

And I’m not saying he’s smart because he kinda-sorta adores me (as a writer–don’t forget, he has a hot cuckoldress to worship full time).  I’m saying he’s smart, because that’s why I followed him in the first place.  His tweets are savvy, well-constructed and edgy in just the right way.


Mr. Anonymous Cuckolded Tweeter, with the permission of his cherished and beloved inamorata, has agreed to be interviewed by me.  I’m hoping to get together with him sometime next week.  And I know you guys.  Inquiring minds want to know:  How does that cuckolding thing actually work in real life?

Don’t you?  Come on, don’t be shy.  You can tell Ms. Angela.



*twat & twatter & twatting I lifted from Kathy Griffin.  She’s very funny.  And she’s on Twitter too.  And she doesn’t follow anybody!  I love that #sexybitch.

**Special thanks to Pervert Savant for teaching me to check my spelling for the correct usage of discrete/discreet.  I can’t and won’t tell you if he’s on Twitter, because it’s none of your business.  But he is here on my blog.

>>Special thanks to In Bed with Dr Sue for letting me steal #sexybitch from her.  Guess what?  She’s on Twitter too.

>>Special thanks to Twitter for hashtags (like the # seen in #sexybitch) which are just so much fun to use.  I even make up my own. Like #yayray which I created for a very special friend I met on Twitter, Ray, who describes himself as:  “Budding chef, blogger, personal assistant, somebody’s hero, avid reader, meditation student, coffee lover, dry humorist, friend, art liker, & lover of life.”

Of Sexy Legs and Poetry

Wednesday, September 5th, 2012

At the Poetry Reading

John Brehm

I can’t keep my eyes off the poet’s

wife’s legs—they’re so much more

beautiful than anything he might

be saying, though I’m no longer

in a position really to judge,

having stopped listening some time ago.

He’s from the Iowa Writers Workshop

and can therefore get along fine

without my attention. He started in

reading poems about his childhood—

barns, cornsnakes, gradeschool, flowers,

that sort of stuff—the loss of

innocence he keeps talking about

between poems, which I can relate to,

especially under these circumstances.

Now he’s on to science, a poem

about hydrogen, I think, he’s trying

to imagine himself turning into hydrogen.

Maybe he’ll succeed. I’m imagining

myself sliding up his wife’s fluid,

rhythmic, lusciously curved, black-

stockinged legs, imagining them arched

around my shoulders, wrapped around my back.

My God, why doesn’t he write poems about her!

He will, no doubt, once she leaves him,

leaves him for another poet, perhaps,

the observant, uninnocent one, who knows

a poem when it sits down in a room with him.


What do you think? I’ve been to my fair share of poetry readings, and most times rather than not, they can be quite yawn-inducing.  Yet I collect, read and write poetry.  I think, perhaps, poetry was meant to be read. It is of ink and parchment, and perhaps even kindles and monitors.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d be looking at the poet’s wife’s legs too.  Wouldn’t you?


If you like this poem as much as I do, visit Mr. Brehm’s website HERE.


Thank you, Pervert Savant, for submitting this lovely piece for our PSO-etry collection. You sure do know how to pick ’em.

xo, Angela

Don’t Fuck with Little Orphan Annie

Saturday, October 31st, 2009


Happy Howl-O-Ween



Broomstick Rides Available:  Click Here


Little Orphan Annie

by James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphan Annie’s come to our house to stay,
And wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away,
And shoo the chickens off the porch and dust the hearth and sweep,
And make the fire, and bake the bread, and earn her board and keep;
And all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire and has the mostest fun
A-listeniin’ to the witch tales that Annie tells about,
And the Gobble-uns that gits you if you don’t watch out!

Once they was a little boy who wouldn’t say his prayers–
And when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,
His mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him bawl,
And when they turned the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
And they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and press,
And seeked him up the chimney flue, and everywheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was just his pants and round about!
And the Gobble-uns’ll git you if you don’t watch out!

And one time a little girl would always laugh and grin,
And make fun of everyone, and all her blood and kin;
And once when they was company and old folks was there,
She mocked them and shocked them and said she didn’t care!
And just as she kicked her heels, and turnt to run and hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’by her side,
And they snatched her through the ceiling
‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
And the Gobble-uns’ll git you if you don’t watch out!

And little Orphan Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
And the lampwick sputters, and the wind goes woo-oo!
And you hear the crickets quit and the moon is gray,
And the lightning bugs in dew is all squenched away–
You better mind your parents, and your teachers fond and dear,
And cherish them that loves you, and dry the orphan’s tear,
And help the poor and needy one that cluster all about,
Or the Gobble-uns’ll git you if you don’t watch out!


Believe me, it’s very scary when PQS reads this aloud to you!  That man has a way with him.  Oh yes he does.

The poet’s website:  Click Here   Wikipedia Page:  Click Here


And did you hear about the Twitter "Tweance" wherein a psychic contacted Michael Jackson, Kurt Cobain and River Phoenix?  Sadly, Avon Bard, Shakespeare was apparently rather tired and chose not to participate.  You can "see" the Seance HERE.  And read about it HERE.


Before you go …

… shall we Dance? 

Dance the Monster Mash?  Click Here

Poetry on Broadway … Tra la la

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009


by Frederick Seidel

A naked woman my age is a total nightmare.
A woman my age naked is a nightmare.
It doesn’t matter. One doesn’t care.
One doesn’t say it out loud because it’s rare
For anyone to be willing to say it,
Because it’s the equivalent of buying billboard space to display it,

Display how horrible life after death is,
How horrible to draw your last breath is,
When you go on living.
I hate the old couples on their walkers giving
Off odors of love, and in City Diner eating a ray

Of hope, and paying and trembling back out on Broadway,

Drumming and dancing, chanting something nearly unbearable,
Spreading their wings in order to be more beautiful and more terrible.


Poetry:  I just can’t get enough, it seems.  Yeah, I know you come here to read dirty stuff from the Phone Sex Goddess, the Queen of Kink, the Damsel of Debauchery.  I get that.  I really do.  But there is a lot more to me than "Smut Literatrix" and if you don’t want these other parts of me … sorry, chump.  Google your favorite dirty words and get on with it. Or you could hop on over to Blistered Lips, where I keep my little trove of personally-written FREE smut.  Either way, I’ll be here when you get back. 

So let’s get back to talking about this poem/poet.  First off, from my point of observation, it’s comme il faut to blog about this poem today, because I’m going to a Broadway show tonight.  And, oh yes, I am excited.  But more about that at some future date. 

It seems that Mr. Seidel is currently the toast of the town with the recent publication of Poems 1959-2009.  Everybody’s talking and I’m listening. 

Michael Hoffman of The Poetry Foundation notes: 

From the beginning, Seidel was always a bogeyman, a Bürgerschreck, an épateur—a carnivore if not a cannibal in the blandly vegan compound of contemporary poetry

From Wyatt Mason at The New York Times:

 … novelists are among Seidel’s most articulate advocates. Norman Rush recognizes how Seidel’s choices can be misunderstood: “The risks Seidel takes have to do with threatening the potential affection of new readers. They may see him as a ‘swell’ and take that presentation as reason enough not to be interested in what he’s doing. He doesn’t cozen the reader. But if you persist, the power and profundity of Seidel’s games, and his nerve, will get you — draw you into the extremely complex set of experiences that he’s laid out for you to have.”

Adam Kirsh (The New York Sun) answers the question, "Who is the best American poet writing today?" with:

Though the news will not be welcome to prize juries, literary philanthropists, and the people who choose the poems for the subway, I think it may be Frederick Seidel. There is a reason why Mr. Seidel, whose first book was published more than 40 years ago, has not accumulated the cargo of honors that turn so many poets his age into mere worthies: no Pulitzer, no National Book Award. Indeed, if you go to the "about the author" section of Mr. Seidel’s new Web site, you will find no curriculum vitae at all. Instead, Mr. Seidel offers a clipping from a 1962 issue of the New York Times, about the controversy that resulted when a panel of poets chose his first collection, "Final Solutions," for the 92nd Street Y’s inaugural poetry prize. Though the judges included Robert Lowell, the sponsor refused to publish the book, on the grounds that it libeled a living person.

Now — to my mind — this is an exciting and fascinating man/poet/iconoclast.  Being somewhat of a maverick myself, I am downright rapturous over this guy and his book.  I want to know more more more.  Give me more more more.  I want a biography.  I want an autobiography.  I want that book of poems.  I want it bad bad bad.  I want it yesterday.  I want to prop it up next to my PC so I can cast loving glances at it.  I want it in my purse so I can take it out at the nail salon and impress my fellow fashionistas.  II want it under my pillow at night so I can fondle it and smell it up-close-and-personal.

But that’s beside the point.   What’s more important is that I feel and see so much with this poem.  First of all — despite the fact I’ve never been even close to New York — I feel the New York-iness of this poem.  I can see the City Diner.  I am sitting in the City Diner, feeling the aged leather of the booth cling to my legs as I peruse a yellowed menu of cheap and fattening food while watching the natives order french fries (not home fries!) with their bacon and eggs from a waitress named Frannie, wearing a triangled handkerchief above her left breast. 

I know that elderly couple and the scent of their weathered love.  A love so strong and so anchored in time they could care less what a poet sophisticate thinks of them … they have each other.

And how dare Mr. Seidel  talk so candidly of aging women.  Ouch!  It just touches sooo deeply  — and I’m not complaining, mind you.  bring it on, Mr. Seidel.  make me choke on your poem — because I fear aging, having played the youth card for all its worth in the pursuit and conquering of men. 

Can you tell I’m excited?  Yes, indeed, I am.  I’ve caught up with some of Mr. Seidel’s work elsewhere.  And I’m more than excited:  I’m downright smitten.  I’m hot to trot.  I’m turned upside down and inside out.  This guy is a versifying genius.  I just might make him the Poet Savant of Zen.  A new savant is — after all — long overdue, and I don’t think there’s anyone else even close to being worthy of carrying the mantle.  Although I don’t think he’d thank me in the morning.  *wink*

I’ll be thinking about you and Mr. Seidel and all that jazz on my way to the theater this evening.  I’m much excited, and engaged and enthused  — the three "Es" of Self-Actualization (I made that up, but it works for me).  A special thank you to Mr. Smith who sent me a link in an email and got this whole ball rolling.  The only other occasion he took time from his (most likely) busy schedule to write me was to complain about something we’ve since ironed out.  So it was with much pleasure I received this particular email today.  You did good, Mr. Smith!

xo, Angela

ps. Speaking of Fredericks … Fredrick the Cross Dressing Cat has started his own blog.  How cute is that?  I always knew he was smarter than the average kitty.  He’s also tweeting at twitter, so make sure to follow him.