The Reading Ace đ¤đ¤đ
I don't know that audiobook was the proper format for me for this poetry collection. I like the themes that a lot of the poems present, but I don't know...Atwood herself did the narration, and everything was kind of flat and monotone.
There's a poem about girlboss werewolves upsetting traditionally male stereotypes, for heaven's sake! I should have been more invested.
Upgrade to Werewolves
In the old days, all werewolves were male.
They burst through their bluejean clothing
as well as their own split skins,
exposed themselves in parks,
howled at the moonshine.
Those things frat boys do.
Went too far with the pigtail yankingâ
growled down into the pink and wriggling
females, who cried Wee wee
wee all the way to the bone.
Heck, it was only flirting,
plus a canid sense of fun:
See Jane run!
But now itâs different:
No longer gender specific.
Now itâs a global threat.
Long-legged women sprint through ravines
in furry warmups, a pack of kinky
models in sado-French Vogue getups
and airbrushed short-term memories,
bent on no-penalties rampage.
Look at their red-rimmed paws!
Look at their gnashing eyeballs!
Look at the backlit gauze
of their full-moon subversive halos!
Hairy all over, this belle dame,
and itâs not a sweater.
O freedom, freedom and power!
they sing as they lope over bridges,
bums to the wind, ripping out throats
on footpaths, pissing off brokers.
Tomorrow theyâll be back
in their middle-management black
and Jimmy Choos
with hours they canât account for
and first datesâ blood on the stairs.
Theyâll make some calls: Good-bye.
It isnât you, itâs me. I canât say why.
Theyâll dream of sprouting tails
at sales meetings,
right in the audiovisuals.
Theyâll have addictive hangovers
and ruined nails.
I'm probably going to try physically reading this one.
I don't know that audiobook was the proper format for me for this poetry collection. I like the themes that a lot of the poems present, but I don't know...Atwood herself did the narration, and everything was kind of flat and monotone.
There's a poem about girlboss werewolves upsetting traditionally male stereotypes, for heaven's sake! I should have been more invested.
Upgrade to Werewolves
In the old days, all werewolves were male.
They burst through their bluejean clothing
as well as their own split skins,
exposed themselves in parks,
howled at the moonshine.
Those things frat boys do.
Went too far with the pigtail yankingâ
growled down into the pink and wriggling
females, who cried Wee wee
wee all the way to the bone.
Heck, it was only flirting,
plus a canid sense of fun:
See Jane run!
But now itâs different:
No longer gender specific.
Now itâs a global threat.
Long-legged women sprint through ravines
in furry warmups, a pack of kinky
models in sado-French Vogue getups
and airbrushed short-term memories,
bent on no-penalties rampage.
Look at their red-rimmed paws!
Look at their gnashing eyeballs!
Look at the backlit gauze
of their full-moon subversive halos!
Hairy all over, this belle dame,
and itâs not a sweater.
O freedom, freedom and power!
they sing as they lope over bridges,
bums to the wind, ripping out throats
on footpaths, pissing off brokers.
Tomorrow theyâll be back
in their middle-management black
and Jimmy Choos
with hours they canât account for
and first datesâ blood on the stairs.
Theyâll make some calls: Good-bye.
It isnât you, itâs me. I canât say why.
Theyâll dream of sprouting tails
at sales meetings,
right in the audiovisuals.
Theyâll have addictive hangovers
and ruined nails.
I'm probably going to try physically reading this one.