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ATELIER MONTCLAIR IS SERVING UP VINTAGE
CURATED VINTAGE PIECES FROM DIOR, ARMANI, ESCADA AND SOME GREAT HAUTE COUTURE
ROBERT GRECO SCULPTURE
FOR JON BON JOVI
RSVP essential in order to get in, please email to:
LONDON LAUNCH PARTY
JUNE 16TH 2013
70, HOXTON STREET
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Try State contributor Robert P. Langdon has released a new collection of poetry and stories. We have published Robert's work in Try State Issue #1 and #2 and highly recommend this collection. You can order your copy here.
With The Candied Road Ahead, Robert P. Langdon shares select poems and stories written over a 25 year period. His works are sometimes passionate, sometimes whimsical, but always personal. Langdon's writing focuses on life experiences and memories of family and friends; identity; growing up gay and Catholic during the 1980s; pop culture; social issues; love and relationships.
Inside The Candied Road Ahead, you’ll find a sexual awakening with the help of Brooke Shields and John & Yoko; the consequence of urban sprawl; one-way phone conversations that prove you can't teach an old dog new tricks (or can you?); a new take on a classic fairy tale; a modern version of happily ever after; an erotic trip to the dentist; and something a little creepy.
Here is a sample of Robert's work that we published in Try State issue #2:
Truth Or Dare
Jim M. Showed me how to masturbate.
One childhood day -- the summer thick
around us -- he lay me on his dad’s bench press,
the pleather frigid as a 5th grader.
Grabbed my budding gland -- already awake
with anticipation -- and jerked up and down
down and up like a pogostick. I sprung up
with the sensation invading my body.
He nudged me down with his free hand.
“Relax,” he whispered. I closed my eyes
letting this delicacy introduce itself
as Blondie cooed in my ears.
The tingling rose like a rollercoaster climbing
higher and higher reaching for that final drop.
I let go with a quiver and gasp.
An uncontrollable pop. And it was over.
He reached for his dad’s dirty
magazine hidden under the workbench
seat. Opened it next to my
bewildered pubic and pointed.
The 70s spread showed a burly man shooting
banners of the substance dribbled on my belly
-- thick as the blue eyeliner on the gaping
woman keeling at his feet.
“It’s called jizz,” he said
rubbing it around my belly like finger paint.
I lay spread under his touch
gulping the air heavy with the scent of Jergens.
We continued our game into high school. Until the dares
rang true. For me, they are the truth.
For Jim M. truth stays stashed at the bottom
of his toolbox buried from his wife and buddies.
Buried until the next time a few drinks resurrect
longings for those boyhood days.
Until the next time a discreet stranger
offers a hand and jump starts the truth.