Making Conversation With a Dead English Guy

"It's girly poetry," I said. "It would make you sick." "My dear," he told me, "if anything in this world makes me sick, It isn't the art or the women."

"I will make beautiful words," I said," as long as noone knows what I'm talking about."

He told me, Your kind of poetry is all the melodrama you could pack into a handful of broken lines He said it was like ice cream simplicity You understood the texture If not the thought behind it.

I told him to go ride off into the sunset. He showed me where they buried his horse.

I said, I've never had a romantic relationship that I could base a poem upon. He said, that's why they call it creative writing.

He said the world is at my fingertips. I said, I must have huge hands.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, he said. Fine, I said. Get the hell out of here.

One day she came to realize it was not enough to talk to herself. She had to answer herself back in a British accent.