MARY LAMBERT

I’m telling you stuff and I wrote a poem

Hi my babes, I’m leaving for tour in a little over a week. This is crazytown. My book is done! It’s a doozy! My first collection of poetry, titled, “500 tips for fat girls” is going to be released at The Fremont Abbey on January 19th in Seattle. From there, I go on a Northeastern tour and up to Canada! The tour dates are as follows:

GOOD FEELINGS MUSIC AND POETRY TOUR 2013
(appearing with poet Rose McAleese)

Design by Blank Studios of Bellingham, WA

Design by Blank Studios of Bellingham, WA

Seattle, WA
1/19/2012
Fremont Abbey Grand Hall
BUY TICKETS HERE

Boston, MA
1/22/2013
Berklee College of Music

New York, NY
1/27/2013
Bluestockings

Toronto, ON
1/31/2013
The Boat

Washington, D.C
2/4/2013-2/6/2013
Busboys and Poets

Rochester, NY
2/9/2013
House Show!
(Contact poetryandpienight@gmail.com for address and details)

Ottawa, ON
2/12/2013
The Rainbow Bistro

Montreal, QC
2/14/2013
Le Cagibi

Burlington, VT
2/16/2013
Radio Bean

I’ll be annoyingly blogging about my escapades, so watch for it! Or don’t and be sad.

Here is an excerpt from my poetry collection. If you want to read my dumb rantings about body image and childhood trauma, look no further! The book will only be available on my merch site or at shows starting on January 19th, until a publishing company has a lapse in judgement.

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(from 500 tips for fat girls)

dear oprah,

When we were in 6th grade,
everyone was reading “a child called ‘it’”
even the kids who could barely read, loved that
damn book
i swallowed the pages whole because i wanted my abuse
to be
that public

if my tortures were more extreme, i could write a book and then
everyone would love me and hold me like a child or kill my father or bury me already
Once when I was 7 I took scissors to all of my clothes in the closet. I don’t know why. I made little slits in them.
maybe Oprah would give me a new life or a pair of jeans
but then i realized
everyone’s dad or uncle or brother or neighbor fucked them up
in some way
so here we are, reading ‘a child called “it”’ coping for our shit, saying
“at least he didn’t use the stovetop and burn my limbs” but i think we realized he might as well have

i wish i could make little slits in the years of my life
or put them in a book or something

 

                       xoxo, Mary

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