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Poème du jour: Matthea Harvey

July 11, 2011

Dear readers,

There is not much to say today. I am strung, quite highly, between utter gross laziness and horrible stress. Postgrad applications and degree appeals are bogging me down with their various (and now overlapping) complications, but I still don’t feel motivated to get it all over with. But I will. I swear. Maybe.

On the bright side, my review of Kirsten Irving’s pamphlet ‘What To Do’ is now up at Sabotage! It is a fantastic website devoted to reviewing small press publications, run by the lovely Claire Trévien, who I met over two years ago at a festival in Warwick. You can find Caroline’s interview with Claire here.

In lieu of a proper update from my mushy mushy brain, have this poem from La Petite Zine 27 by Matthea Harvey, mostly because giggling at it made me feel better:

Cheap Cloning Process Lets You Have Your Own Little Elvis (World Weekly News)

If the real Elvis was a racecar,
the little matchbox-sized Elvi we buy 
are the half-galaxies of other cars’
odometers seen through a cab window
at night. When my Elvis does a hip swivel
(like a bobblehead dog on the dash, he’s game, 
will swivel all day long) it doesn’t cause 
a full-on swoon, just a tiny pinprick 
of desire felt in the arch of the foot.
Like a lozenge when you want a meal. 
The Elvi are smart not to serenade us 
with Baby If You’ll Give Me All of Your Love 
on their nanoguitars—we’d crush them 
with one corresponding hip spiral of our own. 
They stick to strumming Dainty Little Moonbeams 
while we smoke cigarettes and cloak them 
in smoke. My friend, who’s strangely loyal 
to the Original Elvis timeline, maintains hers 
nicely, smoothes baby oil onto his black hair. 
Using a microscope, she’s already sewn him 
a tiny sequined jumpsuit for his later fatter years 
and to that end she deep-fries breadcrumbs stuffed 
with a dab of peanut butter and one Baco Bit. 
Once I caught mine manhandling a sprig of parsley,
pretending it was Priscilla. Every month or so
we meet at a playground on our lunchbreak 
and corral them all in a sandbox. Fights flare up
instantaneously over who’s the real Elvis, 
who’s an impostor, and while they pull on 
each other’s pompadours, we munch on 
our pastrami sandwiches, imagining 
what’s up next: a tiny Jesus, or, a mini
Michael Jackson wearing Disco Barbie’s glove. 

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