Very Bad Poetry 3:
Very Bad Poetry 2:
Chris Heart’s skin is as thin as the delicate film of soap bubbles blown by a sad little girl with divorced parents in July after she microwaved her own lonely dinner. He’s sensitive and transparent and loves with the ferocity of a mother bird who literally chews up worms, swallows them, and vomits them forth into the waiting mouths of babes. If you think that’s gross, then you possess a naive view of the brutal undoing that is love. Chris doesn’t merely wear his heart on his sleeve. He wears his heart on his pants too. On his socks. His underwear. In fact, it’s wrong to say he wears his heart. Chris Heart IS a heart, one big heart constantly pumping blood that drenches his readers in the form of poignant verse. Born in Michigan, he grew up in Aphrodite’s garden.
VERY BAD PODCAST: YEAR 3
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Chris Heart
