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Best Famous Maggie Estep Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Maggie Estep poems. This is a select list of the best famous Maggie Estep poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Maggie Estep poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of maggie estep poems.

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Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Fuck Me

 **** ME
I'm all screwed up so
**** ME.
**** ME and take out the garbage feed the cat and **** ME you can do it, I know you can.
**** ME and theorize about Sado Masochism's relationship to classical philosophy tell me how this stimulates the fabric of most human relationships, I love that kind of pointless intellectualism so do it again and **** ME.
Stop being logical stop contemplating the origins of evil and the beauty of death this is not a TV movie about Plato sex life, this is **** ME so **** ME It's the pause that refreshes just add water and **** ME.
I wrote this so I'd have a good excuse to say "**** ME" over and over and over so I could get a lot of attention and look, it worked! So thank you thank you and **** ME.

Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Bad Day At The Beauty Salon

 I was a 20 year old unemployed receptionist with
dyed orange dreadlocks sprouting out of my skull.
I needed a job, but first, I needed a haircut.
So I head for this beauty salon on Avenue B.
I'm gonna get a hairdo.
I'm gonna look just like those hot Spanish haircut models, become brown and bodacious, grow some 7 inch fingernails painted ***** red and rake them down the chalkboard of the job market's soul.
So I go in the beauty salon.
This beautiful Puerto Rican girl in tight white spandex and a push-up bra sits me down and starts chopping my hair: "Girlfriend," she says, "what the hell you got growing outta your head there, what is that, hair implants? Yuck, you want me to touch that ****, whadya got in there, sandwiches?" I just go: "I'm sorry.
" She starts snipping my carefully cultivated Johnny Lydon post-Pistols hairdo.
My foul little dreadlocks are flying around all over the place but I'm not looking in the mirror cause I just don't want to know.
"So what's your name anyway?" My stylist demands then.
"Uh, Maggie.
" "Maggie? Well, that's an okay name, but my name is Suzy.
" "Yeah, so?" "Yeah so it ain't just Suzy S.
Y, I spell it S.
E, the extra "e" is for extra Suzee.
" I nod emphatically.
Suzee tells me when she's not busy chopping hair, she works as an exotic dancer at night to support her boyfriend named Rocco.
Suzee loves Rocco, she loves him so much she's got her eyes closed as she describes him: "6 foot 2, 193 pounds and, girlfriend, his arms so big and long they wrap around me twice like I'm a little Suzee sandwich.
" Little Suzee Sandwich is rapt, she blindly snips and clips at my poor punk head.
She snips and clips and snips and clips, she pauses, I look in the mirror: "Holy ****, I'm bald.
" "Holy ****, baby, you're bald.
" Suzee says, finally opening her eyes and then gasping.
All I've got left is little post-nuke clumps of orange fuzz.
And I'll never get a receptionist job now.
But Suzy waves her manicured finger in my face: "Don't you worry, baby, I'm gonna get you a job at the dancing club.
" "What?" "Baby, let me tell you, the boys are gonna like a bald go go dancer.
" That said, she whips out some clippers, shaves my head smooth and insists I'm gonna love getting naked for a living.
None of this sounds like my idea of a good time, but I'm broke and I'm bald so I go home and get my best panties.
Suzee lends me some 6 inch pumps, paints my lips bright red, and gives me 7 shots of Jack Daniels to relax me.
8pm that night I take the stage.
I'm bald, I'm drunk, and by god, I'm naked.
A few guys feel sorry for me and risk getting their hands bitten off by sticking dollars in my garter belt.
My disheveled pubic hairs stand at full attention, ready to poke the guys' eyes out if they get too close.
Then I notice this bald guy in the audience, I've got a new empathy for bald people, I figure maybe it works both ways, maybe this guy will stick 10 bucks in my garter.
I saunter over.
I'm teetering around unrhythmically, I'm the surliest, unsexiest dancer that ever go-go across this hemisphere.
The bald guy looks down into his beer, he'd much rather look at that than at my pubic mound which has now formed into one vicious spike so it looks like I've got a unicorn in my crotch.
I stand there weaving through the air.
The strobe light is illuminating my pubic unicorn.
Madonna's song Borderline is pumping through the club's speaker system for the 5th time tonight: "BORDERLINE BORDERLINE BORDERLINE/LOVE ME TIL I JUST CAN'T SEE.
" And suddenly, I start to wonder: What does that mean anyway? "LOVE ME TIL I JUST CAN'T SEE" What? Screw me so much my eyes pop out, I go blind, end up walking down 2nd Avenue crazy, horny, naked and blind? What? There's a glitch in the tape and it starts to skip.
ooop" I stumble and twist my ankle.
My g-string rides between my buttcheeks making me twitch with pain.
My head starts spinning, my knees wobble, I go down on all fours and puke all over the bald guy's lap.
So there I am.
Butt naked on all fours.
But before I have time to regain my composure, the strip club manager comes over, points his smarmy strip club manager finger at me and goes: "You're bald, you're drunk, you can't dance and you're fired.
" I stand up.
"Oh yeah, well you stink like a sneaker, pal.
" I peel off one of my pumps and throw it in the direction of his fat head then I get the hell out of there.
A few days later I run into Suzee on Avenue A.
Turns out she got fired for getting me a job there in the first place.
But she was completely undaunted, she dragged me up to this wig store on 14th Street, bought me a mouse brown shag wig, then got us both telemarketing jobs on Wall Street.
And I never went to a beauty salon again.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Sex Goddess

so don't mess with me 
I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS 
and you can't have any
'cause they're all mine
'cause I'm
"Hey," you may say to yourself, "who the hell's she tryin' to kid, she's no sex goddess," But trust me, I am if only for the fact that I have the unabashed gall to call myself a SEX GODDESS, I mean, after all, it's what so many of us have at some point thought, we've all had someone who worshipped our filthy socks and barked like a dog when we were near giving us cause to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.
Only we'd never come out and admit it publicly well, you wouldn't admit it publicly but I will because I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
I haven't always been a SEX GODDESS I used to be just a mere mortal woman but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed then manifest in late night 900 number ads where 3 bodacious bimbettes heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh: "Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh, you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh.
" Yeah I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh I got fed up with it all so I put on my combat boots and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image even though I would never actually use my SEX TOYS 'cause my being a SEX GODDESS it isn't a SEXUAL thing it's a POLITICAL thing I don't actually have SEX, no I'm too busy taking care of important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS, yeah, I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show and MTV and become a parody of myself and make buckets full of money off my own inane brand of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY because my pain is different because I am a SEX GODDESS and when I talk, people listen why ? Because, you guessed it, I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE and you're not.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Emotional Idiot

 Liner Notes - (From Love Is A Dog From Hell)

Emotional Idiocy is obviously
a theme close to my heart since I seem to use the phrase in novels and
CDs alike.
My friend and mentor of sorts, Andrew Vachss, upon hearing me read a rendition of this poem, stated that it ought to be the theme song for borderline personality disorder.
He's right.
I'm an Emotional Idiot so get away from me.
I mean, COME HERE.
Wait, no, that's too close, give me some space it's a big country, there's plenty of room, don't sit so close to me.
Hey, where are you? I haven't seen you in days.
Whadya, having an affair? Who is she? Come on, aren't I enough for you? God, You're so cold.
I never know what you're thinking.
You're not very affectionate.
I mean, you're clinging to me, DON'T TOUCH ME, what am I, your fucking cat? Don't rub me like that.
Don't you have anything better to do than sit there fawning over me? Don't you have any interests? Hobbies? Sailing Fly fishing Archeology? There's an archeology expedition leaving tomorrow why don't you go? I'll loan you the money, my money is your money.
my life is your life my soul is yours without you I'm nothing.
Move in with me we'll get a studio apartment together, save on rent, well, wait, I mean, a one bedroom, so we don't get in each other's hair or anything or, well, maybe a two bedroom I'll have my own bedroom, it's nothing personal I just need to be alone sometimes, you do understand, don't you? Hey, why are you acting distant? Where you goin', was it something I said? What What did I do? I'm an emotional idiot so get away from me I mean, MARRY ME.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Stalk Me

 Liner Notes - (from Love Is A Dog From Hell)

My friend Jenny is really
worried that people are going to follow me around and send me dead animal
parts and doll heads as a result of this song but please, if you feel inclined
to send me dead animal parts, think it through.
Stalk me I once wrote a poem called **** ME So stalk me I'm asking for it Don't take your medication Stalk ME Write to me and say Dear Maggie I love what you do You've got a really big mouth Actually your mouth is a little too big Anyone ever tell you what a big-mouthed ***** you are God, you know I'm kinda sick of you I mean, what's so great about you How come you got on TV I could do that You ain't **** You suck I hate you but I love you I love you because I hate you Can I have your children? Will you shack up with me? Oh sure I'll shack up with you I love stalkers Especially when they hate me But you knew that That's why you stalk me You're not fooled by my clever ruse ***** goddess? I think not I'm just a sucker for punishment So punish me Spank me Dominate my sock drawer And stalk me Don't stalk Jodie Foster, David Letterman or John S.
Hall Don't go through their trash Their trash is boring play with my trash Hurry, I'm waiting I'm pleading Just come on and do it Chew me choke me and stalk me That'll teach me to write all that goddamned poetry

Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Scab Maids On Speed

 My first job was when I was about 15.
I had met a girl named Hope who became my best friend.
Hope and I were flunking math class so we became speed freaks.
This honed our algebra skills and we quickly became whiz kids.
For about 5 minutes.
Then, our brains started to fry and we were just teenage speed freaks.
Then, we decided to to seek gainful employment.
We got hired on as part time maids at the Holiday Inn while a maid strike was happening.
We were scab maids on speed and we were coming to clean your room.
We were subsequently fired for pilfering a Holiday Inn guest's quaalude stash which we did only because we never thought someone would have the nerve to call the front desk and say; THE MAIDS STOLE MY LUUDES MAN.
But someone did - or so we surmised - because we were fired.
I supppose maybe we were fired because we never actually CLEANED but rather just turned on the vacuum so it SOUNDED like we were cleaning as we picked the pubic hairs off the sheets and out of the tub then passed out on the bed and caught up on the sleep we'd missed from being up all night speeding.
When we got fired, we became waitresses at an International House of Pancakes.
We were much happier there.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

The Stupid Jerk Im Obsessed With

 The stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
stands so close to me
I can feel his breath
on my neck
and smell
the way he would smell
if we slept together
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and that is his primary function in life
to be a stupid jerk I can obsess over
and to talk to that dingy bimbette blonde 
as if he really wanted to hear about her
manicures and
pedicures and
New Age ritualistic enema cures and
truth be known, he probably does wanna hear about it
because he is the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's obsessed with doing anything he can
to lend fuel to my fire
he makes a point of standing
looking over my shoulder 
when I'm talking to the guy who adores me
and would bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
if I asked him to bark like a dog
and wave to strangers
but I can't ask him to bark like a dog
or impersonate any kind of animal at all
cause I'm too busy
looking at the way the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
has pants on that perfectly define his well-shaped ***
to the point where I'm thoroughly frantic
I'm just gonna go home 
and stick my head in the oven
overdose on nutmeg and aspirin
and sit in the bathtub reading The Executioner's Song
and being completely confounded by the fact
that I can see
the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with's face
defining itself in the peeling plaster of the wall
grinning and winking
and I start to yell,
Get the hell out of there
You're just a figment of my imagination
Just get a life and get out of my plaster
and pass me the next painful situation please
but he just keeps on
grinning and winking
he's the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with
and he's mine
in my plaster
And frankly, I couldn't be happier.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Hey Baby

 Liner Notes - (from No More Mister Nice Girl)

I was having a foul day.
Some geezer harrassed me on the street and I got completely bent out of shape, but the guy was huge so I just stuffed my retort.
Went home to drink coffee.
No milk.
I ripped through the cupboards and found Non Dairy Creamer.
It tasted like ****.
I got into one of those senseless rages where you throw stuff.
I hurled the Non Dairy Creamer and it fell into the tub where I was running some bath water.
The creamer erupted and made this bathing gel of Non Dairy Creamer.
I was ready to kill myself.
Instead I wrote Hey Baby.
So I'm walking down the street minding my own business when this guy starts with me he's suckin' his lips goin' Hey Baby Yo Baby Hey Baby Yo and I get a little tense and nervous but I keep walking but the guy, he's dogging my every move hey Miss, he says, Don't miss this! And he grabs his crotch and sneers ear to ear so finally, I turn around Hey Buddy, I say I'm feelin' kinda tense, Buddy I got a fuckin' song in my heart so come on, Let's go I got a huge bucket of non-dairy creamer and some time to kill so let's do it we'll make some foul-smelling artifical milk and drink gallons and gallons and gallons of it Get our bladders exceedingly full then sit on the toilet together and let the water run in the shower and torture ourselves by not letting ourselves urinate as the water rushes loudly into the bathrub, okay? We'll do it together writhe in utter agony Just you and me and I'll even spring for some of that blue **** for the toilet bowl, all right? I mean, that's my idea of a good time so how bout it, you wanna? The guy backs up a bit Whatsa matter, Baby? You got somethin' against men?, he says No, I say I don't have anything against men Just STUPID men