I call Stuart Miller (Phillip Le Brock) the greatest living author because I think he is. I do not call him a poet because he has never written a poem; he even dislikes poetry, I think. But everything he has written is a poem in the best as well as in the broadest sense of the word
You are so far up your own arse Phil
You have used somebody else’s introduction as your own
And your cunt stinks
Have a shower
Fuck you
I would not touch you as you are no longer pure
It is your corruption
Your nigger cock is diseased
I am not a nigger
Then why pass yourself off as a nigger
You are deluded June
Come off of the shit
It is expensive and will kill you
What do you care
I do care
Like fuck you do
Do you remember when you were clean
I had hopes for you
I really had hopes for you
But you were not that strong
But it was nice while it lasted
We were walking by the Seine
Casually selecting books
From the used book sellers
Les Bouquinistes of Paris
Opposite the great cathedral
It was a scalding day
You were wearing a white frilly dress
Which was generously opaque
There were hints of your mystery
You met Bella during our day
And we came back to this very apartment
You had always fancied Bella
And asked me if I had ever fucked her
We both undressed and lay on this now rancid bed
Two sweaty cunts awaiting your nigger cock
But what did you do
You wrote a fucking short story
As Bella and I fucked each other
Only pausing to masturbate over us
When you could not control yourself further
I never finished the short story which is sad
Here it is yellowing in a box
Did you ever give it a title
Not that I can remember
Pass the box to me
You fucking liar
This is one of the short stories
With that false introduction
You are wafer thin
I might be a stinking junkie
But you are nothing at all
I wish I could call you a failed writer
But you are not a failed writer or a poet
You are on top of your craft
But as a person you are a just a cunt
And you had the cheek to call our story
Les Bouquinistes of Paris