Friday, August 14, 2009

Kate Evans interviews me and reviews Spot of Bleach...

Joy Leftow: Dare to be Different by Kate Evans


I like Joy Leftow's iconoclastic ways and writing so much that I featured an interview with her on this blog. Enjoy!

Please tell us about the genesis of your book.
Spot of Bleach is an organic mix of sensibility and growth up until the time book was printed in 2006, dating back to poetry first written in 1980 when I wrote the sestina “Twisted, A Sestina of Love” at a writing class at Columbia University. As I put the book together, it seemed to choose its own subjects from which I named chapters.

The placement of the chapters took some time to figure out. I took the book apart and put it together several times before being sure the fit was right. Finally it made sense that the very risqué love story should go at the end. I wrote that story in 2001 when I attended the creative writing program at CCNY, where I earned my second masters.

From the very beginning, my creative writings caused a riff in every writing class. Other members became angry about my style and very often argued about my characters complaining that the characters didn’t make them feel empathy. Most professors pointed out that the very thing that the other students didn’t like about my characters, are the things that make the characters alive and real.

What's the one thing you most want people to know about your book?
The book evolved out life experience, creativity, and my powers of observation. There are many stories to tell and within this volume I tell many. You may hate what I write about or how I write, but I promise this book won’t bore you.

I need writing like air and this book is what I breathed out. I call my poems “my offspring” because I have given them life. In that regard, the book is a parallel expression of the years from which the works are collected, an assortment of articles, stories, philosophical meanderings or what may now be called flash fiction along with narrative poetry.

Please tell us a little about the photographs that are included in your collection and how you see them as complementing the poems.

Years ago after I purchased my first digital, people said I had a good eye for showing things in a different perspective. Since the book is very personal, the photos add to this view by showing more about how I see things. For example, the cover section Philosophy has a photo I took while in Thailand visiting the Golden Buddha. The cover for the chapter forms is a famous rock form in Los Cabos. The cover pic came to me in a dream, and although the pic was ten years old, it was an urban pic of me in Central Park with my favorite statue, the Lewis Carroll Statue of Alice in Wonderland.

A Barbara Walters question: If you were a poem by any writer, which poem would you be and why?
I would be “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer. Since childhood, I have loved that poem and trees have always appealed to me. I watch the moon and stars through stark branches. I watch the trees change season-to-season and sometimes fall into ill health or get blown over in a storm. Living in a big city as I do, trees are my opportunity to commune with nature. I’m lucky my building is in the northern tip of Manhattan Island where there are many parks. My apartment overlooks an extended spot of nature near the highway. I have several poems inspired by nature and trees.

Why do you write poetry?
I write because I have to; I don’t have a choice. Writing is my first love. I need writing to survive. My poetry has evolved along with me to do more than only share stories. Sometimes there’s a story within, but it will only be one facet of the entire poem which has taken on existential and surreal elements, especially in my newer bluetry series and other writing which can be seen on my blog.

Do you think the Internet is a good complement to writing—or does it just get in the way?
The internet is made for networking and research or maybe just made for me. I can surf all day and network endlessly and it seems to fit my style. It works for me. Look at all the things I’ve done on Facebook alone; first I made a fan club for someone else then for myself, then for a magazine which published my work. Then I promoted several other groups and people. Afterwards I became an editor for The Cartier Street Review and another editor took note of all this activity and asked me to edit an anthology with her. The internet helps move things along.

The only problem I see with this is for a solitary person like me, it encourages me to stay in the house and remain solitary. Why go out when I can accomplish so much sitting in front of a computer?

Do you believe all poetry is political—or just some poems?
I think all poetry is political to the extent that life is political. Every time we make a statement or write a sentence it has wider implications, unless all you say is pass the butter, and even something like that can be made political. Why not get up and get the butter yourself? So much is a mechanism of social behavior we learn. And why must we follow norms? Who is it who decides what norms to follow?

I have always rebelled against norms. For example, I love to eat with my hands instead of a fork, I love to bring up subjects that could be embarrassing. I often write about relationships based on power structures. Work relationships and the structure of work are also political so if you write about work then, in essence, it’s political. Some poetry is blatantly political, concerning the presidency or human rights. More subtle poetry is about relationships or written from a woman’s or man’s view. Sometimes people don’t consider my work political in spite of the fact that I often address social issues in my writing.

Please share with us one poem from the collection, and then riff a little about the journey the poem takes the reader on.


I’m close with this nurse who works at Presbyterian Hospital. One day she told me this story about this baby who’d been born at the hospital and was so tiny because he’d been born addicted to crack. This woman could not have her own children and had considered adoption but finally gave up on the idea. You know how couples are sometimes, they have so much for each other and there’s no more to go around, and her husband thrived under all her attention. This newborn called out to her in a way that made her move like she’d never moved before. As if suddenly without learning she’d gotten up and could tango. She told me a story and we both had tears in our eyes because I felt her pain and the pain of this infant.

Professional caregivers often suffer and burn out because of our pain. It’s a difficult job to keep giving with no payback in sight except to know you’ve done right by someone, so I related. That night, I said I’m going to write a poem about this baby and JoAnne said, Please do, it would help me to deal with it.
I wrote this poem back in 1994 and it’s as apt today as it was then because the problem still exists. I have friends on the scene who tell me each time they hear the poem they hear different things. People cry when I read this poem. They get it! Sometimes people get angry and tell me my poetry isn’t real poetry. There’s been a lot of controversy around that. I actually have a piece on my blog about this which got a great many responses.

Others who have heard me read this before will request it at readings. I'm actually quite bad at attending readings which is kind of strange because there's this dichotomy; I'm very friendly and outgoing while simultaneously reclusive and shy. The other thing to remember is that when blues first emerged, they said it wasn’t “real” music and the same with jazz. Dare to be different, I’ve lived my life by that code.

What are you working on now?
I am currently working on a series of bluetry poems. I labeled them bluetry (yes I made it up) because this series concerns the common themes of blues. This year has been a year for the blues for me. I was compelled to write these. The first bluetry I wrote invokes Billie Holiday—one of my all-time favorites—and is called “I sing the blues for you today.” This poem took me three months before I knew where I was.

I threw Billie’s lines in the bluetry and they took off. I also have a bluetry poem about a dog rescue and canned hunts, another passion of mine. What I see happening in my poetry and writing is that I mix more elements together and take risks. I take a pinch of surreal, mix with equal parts enthusiasm and passion, add existentialism and observations, throw in some reality and voilà!


Anything else you'd like to add?
The most frequent comment about my work usually concerns its honesty and openness or something about my passion. Absolutely, I write with passion, the way I live. People often write me about my poetry and comment on my life being so sad. I don’t know what to do about that really but passion is evoked from intensity. That is the way I am and the way I was born. Perhaps artists become artists because they do feel things more intensely.

From way back I always have a pen in my hand. Now I mostly sit in front of the computer but if I'm forced to go out, I've always got pen and paper at hand and most often use it. Now, I have very little time, being totally involved with two current projects, editor at The Cartier Street Review, and also for The Smoking Book, an anthology concerning smoke, fire, fog, or anything that concerns smoke. I also write interviews for Street Literature Review, the paper mag. It’s also time to return to that unfinished 186 page novel and just spit it out! I love writing and love reading. Being busy with passion is what I live for.

2 comments:

Andrew Christ said...

Yay Joy!

Lisa Allender said...

Thanks, Kate Evans, for letting us all in on the "secrets" of joy/(Joy) so few authors possess. Even when the material is dark, there can be beauty in the "reveal" of it.


Sunday, August 09, 2009

The eye in my sky is crying - bluetry16

The eye in my sky is crying
See my fears roll down the street
Tears allayed by stares in space
A cell phone in hand, no dial tone, a blues band commands my adrenal glands
Understand it’s my wedding band, not a new brand of incense,
I take a firm stand on a crash land course stuck in the meadowlands of York
Passion fruit seeps from my sweat glands
Swerving into oblivion on the freeway, an alien shaman ~ that’s me
An alligator devoured my right hand – Now I have 2 left feet left
Beauty is nothing but a backdrop for the blues
We all want beauty peace a little food and empathy
I keep trying and failing to decompartmentalize; an exemplary fit
Lost my wit – cut it out stupid twit see what’s writ do as befits,
I observe others fare better
The eye in my sky reflects humanity’s tears their fears that life can’t be any better or go anywhere except to all one place eventually
Do you want to be easily forgot, your family there
A score or two more no one will know you
Damn give your shell to charity
No formaldehyde either, please.
I use the excuse I’m Jewish; bury me green please
I keep saying son it will pass you by before we come noon to sun
Is this how you want to spend your last day
My man loves his drugs
Almost as much or more than me
He gets them easily supercalifragilisticexpialidociouslly,
Tons of prescriptions legally
His drugs do him right
Momentarily maniacal he says he’s feelin’ so tight
I see him in a new light struggling to write
Doctrinally following clinical struggles, a mix of Geodon, Ambien Lamogine,
To name a few - some are noxious others only for allergies
Billy Jean’s not his lover; enervated after meds
no more energy when he’s through throw some synergy into the fray
Walking up Bombay Broadway
Brings me back to tears rolling down the street
I refuse to admit defeat repeat it all again and again
The eye in my sky is crying


Dubblex on Guitar & garageband

Friday, August 07, 2009

Bluetry Flowing

Bluetry flowing – coming and going

 

I’ve got the blues real bad flowing from my heartstrings to my hands    

My mind feels my heart sing misty blue for you

Heartstrings pull the red river roves of my mind stills 

Turns chill as the weather 

the trill of the river’s wake 

I am here waiting for you to come on home, just come on home

 

Attached like twins - umbilical cord traveling in space right alongside death, 

death and life - 2 ends of the same string. 

Fate, energy, beyond a memory, the stars, the moon, some stars make it some don’t, some have to fake it and still can’t make it, some of us have it and never make it from the bottom to the top It’s all in my head I assure you my Bluetry won’t cure you for sure if you’re poor demure obscure, secure or insecure and you got the blues come on and wail with me, baby 

You could slow your demise.

 

All the voices in my head tread lightly the pain is great I got the blues on download in my psyche, I’ma put it on pause take a breath let the light in through 

The darkened drapes covering my universe. 

My daddy said I was tone deaf, throw that in reverse.

Capitalize on this crazy bluetry ~ sing Nina Simone off key for you

Like a flower waiting to bloom; Like a light bulb in a dark room

I’m here waiting for you to come on home, and turn me on

Living the blues in the intimate language raising the decibel level for interpole, 

Internet language – you misheard  - dig out the earwax.

 

You remind me of my x-girlfriend he continues on a roll of faith– she’s in love with her own voice too. I guess we have interesting voices I said to defend us. Don’t know if he heard he’s busy feeling his own world. I remind him of a past love. He reported recorded ex gf thinks he’s crazy because he follows me on the internet all the way from India. Imaginary Legends, I can’t help it. It’s outta focus. I can’t imagine -Time gone, nothing matters anymore. Sex, whatever you need, free from fee on the Internet, no lies, all tried and true. 

 

A constant ache, I ain’t as pretty as I used to be. If only I hadn’t put on all that we8. You say don’t worry, it’s all transitory anyway, I’m waiting for someone - show me the way, on the other end, I’m not myopic – I can’t see that far, I’m water, a Pisces, I shape shift into form then when I understand them - I become more a part of who I am I am I am

 

Who’s crazy here? You say I’m the prisoner. I say it’s you. History sees the oppressor oppressed by oppressee. Let me break it down. You’re powerful. I got the balls to defy you – you’re no different than me. We got the same wires trapped beneath the dresser. I’m mother earth confessor, my ribs made this nation, I got the sensation to feel you I do. My ribs crush concrete – I perspire with desire light money rains right outside the window my rainbow manifests. Get outta my way I’ma hit the sky today, it’s my time to get me some, you hear me son. 

 

I’m Violet– a wild mad swirl of a girl inside my heart design, grabbed this for a new poetry line. I never refuse a gift of words I can use. Hey isn’t that a line from a poem? If not I’ll make it one. Violet coming at ya’ - from the Heights, born and raised here -so get down with me tonight, cause we’re all good. 

Thursday, August 06, 2009

My pussy poem tribute to margaret cho

Have any of you seen Margaret Cho? Not many comedians make me laugh but she does. Usually with comedians everyone around me laughs and I'm like - you're so not funny. At one point I was hysterical. You've got to watch her My Puss on you tube.

I wrote my own My Puss poem. Not quite Margaret Cho's masterpiece yet but it will entertain.


My puss is pretty and pink
Your puss is ugly and stink
My puss is sweet like a flower
Your puss is dirty and sour
My puss is nice and tight
Your puss is loose and a fright
My puss is clean and shaved
Your puss should be hidden in a cave
My puss smells spectacular
There’s no vernacular to describe your ugly puss
Your puss is gaseous and has typhus,
My puss is a precious goddess
My puss smells like a fragrant honey bun
Your puss’s clit is like a Cuban cigar
It’s so bizarre, it chases men from the boudoir
My clits like a binary star
Your puss is funky with zits,
My clit makes men want to submit
My puss is clever with wit
Your puss is like a streetcar
You never know who’s on it
My puss is like wordstar
Made to savoir and fear like a jaguar
My pussy’s like a fresh breath of air
Like a green sweet pear
My puss promotes world peace
Your puss is like dirty used up grease
No sense to compare
My fragrant puss with your
Despairing brown bear
My puss is rare
It’s unfair warfare

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Billie's Blues Dog Rescue #VIII

Billie’s blues on my mind tonight
I’ve morphed into Billie singing my blues to her blues we are one
Your protestations sink into my instrumentals
Everything’s easy to get on the Internet; you can get whatever you want to.

I’m a fool to want you, for heaven’s sake why am I in love, here’s a chance fall in love.

I race up the stairs to face closing doors #1 train, elevated, a second too late. For God’s sake, my breath jagged, voice barely whispers on exhale. A golden red-nosed puppy stands before me, jumps on the bench next to DubbleX. Eye to eye, dilemmas & sadness everywhere.

Dubblex says forget the train roars up the watches drama ensues. The dog shaking, wet & wary furry pretty fur seeking solace and warmth. Train pulls in dog runs for the open doors, crevice between the platform & train. I see him go under. I grab him by the flesh on his neck; pull him away from the closing door. Another moment stolen from death. The pup whines, returns to the bench. My heart skips a Billie holiday beat.

This revolution will not be televised it will not put the shine back on your teeth. How bout the belt from my bag - I greedily grab it. Pup accepts collar attempts to climb into my arms again.

Kneel down Johnny, heel, his haunches pressed to my thighs, crouched beside him, clinches the blended holiness of earth and sky. Pressed to my chest, his tongue sweeps my neck. Paws bleeding raw - ice & sleet on the pavement.
Let’s agree to be in love like a melody. Wet white snow falling huge flakes drop on my face. I can’t go where I want to.

Money you’ve got lots of friends crowding right your door,
but when you’re gone and nothing’s left, they don’t come round no more.

I want to go back when things were changing. Now things are suspended or turning backwards. I don't understand. Race for faith, blood bath, Kent State massacre, more prejudice now then before.

Baby pit follows me whining. I bend to examine torn ragged paws, bloodied from standing in deep salted snow, blizzards outside the station. He covers me with kisses, dutifully remains still a second then jumps on my chest. Here, boy, Here. I crouch down he throws himself in my arms shaking.

Downstairs the token booth clerk says cops are on their way. My heart booms, a gut reaction, not my future. I hold red nose with my make shift collar. He pulls me he’s strong, his attention span like a child’s eye caught by mischief, his shaking visible to everyone. Cops show up, act afraid even when they see him sucking my face. The sgt arrives & doesn’t know what to do. Finally a cage from the station arrives. I take charge, tell them how to put him in there away from my caring arms.

I’m a fool to want you. A red nosed pit bull with tail & ears intact. Will they find a home for him? My heart sings collateral let freedom ring, life on a hinge.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Blogging in Washington Heights

It's very pleasing and rewarding to be appreciated artistically. Thank you Carla Zanoni for featuring both of our blogs in your blogwatch. I have been reading Zanoni's Blogwatch since it's inception in Manhattan Times. Her blog, The Streets Where We Live is also enlightening.

I was featured on February 5th blogwatch and didn't even know it until a few weeks ago.

Here's the link to my feature. I'm on page 2.

The Cartier Street Review and Joy Leftow's Blog

A visit to The Cartier Street Review, a nonprofit online literary journal that features poetry, short prose, articles about and reviews of poetry, led to the discovery of the self-proclaimed “Poet Laureate of Washington Heights,” Joy Leftow.

Her poem “Blues Part II” was featured in February’s edition, but this Northern Manhattan resident’s canon and random thoughts about living in the city can be further explored through her home grown blog.

Make sure to dedicate some time to the reading: Leftow’s sometimes philosophical meanderings can be deliciously thought consuming.

http://thecartierstreetreview.blogspot.
com/2009/02/february-2009-

And now DubbleX is featured in this weeks blogwatch by Carla Zanoni. Yay - hooray for me - I'm a good publicist! And Hooray for Dubblex. He's so tickled to be featured.

DubblexDiaries

Poetry Prose & Photos with GCast Player

Not sure what a GCast player is, but it’s certain that DubbleX, the author of this site, is a talented poet with an ear for deep rhythm and rhyme. A prolific writer, DubbleX has a steady stream of poetry at the ready and posted on his blog. A Northern Manhattanite, the author lives with his partner Joy Leftow, whose work has been featured in this column before. They also co-edit The Cartier Street Review, an online literary magazine. DubbleX’s work has a definite sensuality and eroticism in unexpected places, with lines like “the island of Manhattan/ is a body of land/ surrounded by water Inwood is her head/ tracing down to a Washington Heights meringue nights neck/ sloping to strong Harlem shoulders.” Sizzling.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

my first paid poem Is it Love or Excuses

Nothing to sneeze at. I didn't think it was my best poem but hell, it's decent and also nothing to sneeze at. Most of anything I do is nothing to sneeze at.


Back in the mid 90's I got paid $50 for a slam out on Long Island at some place called butterflies & oops - can't recall the second part of the name. Another time I got paid $100 to be on a cable t.v. show called words and images (Damn is this the name?) hosted by Willard Gellis.

Anyway for your delight, my first paid poem~
also available in mp3

IS IT LOVE OR EXCUSES

You avoid me because
you know I know
your secrets
the thoughts that make you ill
I know how you feel

Sometimes you utter nothing
at all & the tv gets louder
to drown out the sound
of my words, my voice
a discarded memory
of what’s left unsaid

We don’t discuss
what I think is wrong
as I record the trail you forge
with the sound of your voice
hollow in my veins
while I follow you room
to room echoing your thoughts
fill the room’s silence
Thunder claps in the distance

You say the echo is loud, too clear
you turn up the volume, cover your ears
while I bisect & categorize
the entrails of your thoughts
My unsaid words follow
the curve of your hips
As you move to and fro worrying
I’ll disparage what you say

I listen, record the flow
of your words, you want me
to share my observations
I do; for you they only personify
my excellent clinical skills
your firm lips cover my unspoken words
a poor excuse, a moment frozen in time
I like the way I feel about me
when I see myself in your eyes

Your eyes hold back tears;
you stare at me & hide your soul;
why should you share to recreate the pain
I don’t exist for myself or you
Your mind’s eye a reflection in glass
None of it real

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Busy as busy bee me...

The latest issue of the Cartier Street Review is out after some delay and setbacks. Bernard's computer was down for a while as was his server so ...
The July issue is up and everyone is saying it's the best yet. All the poetry and short stories are only short of phenomenal plus there are reviews to read too. You have got to check out this edition. The art is popping too. I'm still seeking someone to do layout and also seeking another editor /reader with some experience. If you're interested please contact me at Violetwrites@nyc.rr.com.
The Cartier Street Review will cut back to quarterly. It was too much work to get it out every 2 months so we have cut back. We still have lives to live and writing to do, not just reading and compiling. Check out my new bluetry here, Money. I'm calling it to me and so far landed one edit job (paid cash) and have two possibilities for paid writing for September. Wish me luck as I'm tired of being poor.
Thanks go out to Thomas Hubbard, new editor on board and Dubblex as editor too. Thomas came on board as we were doing the last few final edits for this edition but I expect his expertise will come in handy in future editions.
Going forward, we are considering doing an annual print edition as well. We have to see how it all goes...
Thanks for stopping by and I'll have some new bluetry up soon.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Getting My Fiduciary Groove On ~ Bluetry #15

Get that moolah!
I hear the blues blaring in my head keeping time with the rhythmic beating of my heart
He says, you hammer away like a woodpecker at a tree I say why would I have to be

Mr. and Mrs. Perfect writing off into the sunset
Beset with other concerns can't keep up with the jet set; let me get a taste of java wet from the shower – like frost you turn the sweetest flower to dust
I live on a different planet ~ the moon of the desert sun

Pull out your clarinet and riff me some of them blues baby
Forget about fretting no sweat baby no job
you ain’t likely to get that little corvette
It’s money that’s what I want
They keep telling me the best things in life are free
But you can save that shit for the birds and bees
Throw me some money that’s what I want, a lotta money

Show me some affirmation for my saturation in my individuation; my infatuation is my collusion with occlusion the entire scenario’s a big illusion, stop your accusations, I’m into sanitation – clean this shit up I say!

Give me some antibiotic to cure me from my anti-bureaucratic ways ~ Your antagonistic acidic mean way is what made me leave you in the first plays – your acerbic reaction, you live in a theater play – you don’t give a fuck as you stay stuck in cliché mode lost in dismay -
your figure outlined in the doorway – you think my souls a fucking driveway, I’m familiar with your dossier
I sit and crochet another dread cap dreaming about that chalet made from stone and glass
Rolling meadows and sassafras – leave your morose ass behind while you seek a bypass
I could have it all if I only had some money
Did you hear what I said? That’s what I want Gimmee money

Your loving never gave me much of a thrill but it was useful to help pay my bills
I want some money that’s what I want, I know that money don’t get you everything it’s true
What it don’t get I can’t use that’s part of why I got these woodpecker blues
Now give me money that’s what I want

My life’s gone astray, I try to stay blasé’ hooray for me I’m gonna make some headway and it’s not all heresy – give me a little leeway I’ll show you some mayday

A floodway filled to the brim with resentment, I’m searching for a little contentment
a presentment that money’s the answer to my emancipation proclamation
your abasement antedated my abandonment, it’s no accident, I created a new precedence
and returned to my former craziness

I sing my money blues to you today; share the brilliant broadcast that money’s on its way
Money can’t buy you everything it’s true but what it can’t buy I can’t use
So give me money it’s what I want, Gimmee money – lots of money
Gimmee some money to cure these woodpecker blues
I’m not being greedy Gimmee money, that’s what I want


Notes & Credits:
The original Money that's what I want was recorded in 1959 by Barrett Strong for the Tamla label, distributed by Anna Records. The song was written by Tamla founder, Berry Gordy and Janie Bradford, and became the first hit record for Gordy's Motown flagship label. This version is written by me and is not the same as the original except for the refrain, money that's what I want. Other parts are similar but not the same.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Scrambling to keep up with the joneses - Bluetry #13

I never fit in with them anyway
A misfit, a bad fit perfect sit gimmee some tit, I never had any I just want someone to love is all I need
some nurturing spell my lungs a little tongue hung by a thread keep treading shredding papers there’s no end to trend starters
Call me one anyone someone no relief in sight
You’re right it’s so trite, frightened stay on the side of the good fight, I’m tight
You tried that elevator before - broken down on the ground floor
They keep telling me you’re a loser, I know you’re a poser and a lover not a chooser
I keep writing poetry
My life loves the word, worships the word is my shepherd I shall step lightly trip the light
The word leads me to lush pastures, maintains my poverty, my soul aglow
I want to be cured of the word
Word assuages my misery, my destiny lost and re-found
Refined this new york city landscape triggers my sensitivity
A wilderness of avarice device – my honesty misfired desensitized
I am woman warrior I warned you off the stuff again and again
Each card turns, Mount Everest - show and tell
Let me go home
Take me back to earth solid gold sold lust to trust dust me off cure me of this malady – it’s a fallacy – living in a helix galaxy
I didn’t want to do it … I didn’t want to do it
Thunder strokes the sky lightening cracks open mimicking my life
Reflected in images of why you do me this way
Pray stay a while ‘honey chile’ time’s a wasten' no more haten'
Hat’s off to Danny Kaye not too many know he worked for UNICEF
for three years under a one point five million dollar contract
Fifty years ago – what would that be today?
I’ll get out the calculator
Wow today in 2009, that's one billion ninety one million
Siften' cash through sand papered hands
hard cold cash stayen' in fashion
my heart’s with Danny Kaye
Bought a house sold it a second before foreclosure
Got some tequila to wash down the seizure
Ommmm shanti talliwacker zoom zoom to the moon
I want some poon-tang some boom boom in the poom poom
poetry in the poor house
I’m dancing with Danny Kaye
Moving on up
Lay lady lay lay upon this big brass bed