Whiskey-stained mouth, hair smelling of grilled pineapple and cigarettes, and little flashing instances of shame and sentimentality: this must be the Eileen Myles BBQ Hangover c. 2009! On the bright side, I'm now the proud owner of two handsome bookmarks which read as follows:
1. Don't hoe my row.
7. You've got not reason to fear / my goose.
1. Don't hoe my row.
7. You've got not reason to fear / my goose.
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