Help me name my new chap.

Okay folks, here's the deal. After a long period of stagnation, of living in my own dank filth, of hibernating like a North American brown bear, of avoiding poesy and especially the people in the Poetry Land, of starting my own country called Wretched Self, of drowning in my beer, of festering in acrid wordless squalor, I've emerged anew, a crushed butterfly with a new ms. of poems and a yen for Chinese food lunch specials.

The deets: another 27 poems, all nine-liners, chronicling the aftermath of the sad spring weather and cheap cardboard cut-outs of my last chapbook. Darker, probably more offensive, and dare I say, pretty, these poems take a bit of a left turn from the stark autobiography and emotional detritus of the first book, and engage in some speculative but still emotiony poetics.

So who wants to lend me a name? I'll give a free copy to the winning entry.