007 Challenge

[hmmnmm]

#5

squirmy tongue ripped out
of a xerophilous law book
left orphaned under
porch steps, cannot rise up
and stop the country borne
outhouse gust that brusquely
fluffs the quilted stage
curtain just before
the scent of fresh mown grass
ever had much of a chance

pretty skittle eyes wanting to twinkle,
skedaddle, and noses
wrinkle, retreat for tea, gossip
why the goddamn hillbillies
refuse to join them in
partaking the century's luxuries

By the time the shade trees try
their mightiest to hold tight
the sun before he goes to see
another culture, flighty lyrics
are lipped anew, except
conspiracy’s glum tune of doom
hasn’t changed much since grandma
took her solemnity leave

 

[hmmnmm]

#6

stutter waves done
ejaculated, hat
brims tip, salutes
are polite
walk to the cookout
able to name the drawl
and its sidekick chirp,
twang swimming
by ears
under the cap
put on like it is put
on when taken out.
Deep, insides
unwind, and guts
quicken. Sundays
remain happiest
by far and why
by Monday
dresses are blue.

 

[hmmnmm]

#7

-------

 

[sweepthefloor]

1.

I touched a brick wall
And tried to hug it-
It has no arms.

I loved a wet mountains
And tried to climb it-
It is a mudslide.

I licked a funny door knob
And tried to suck it-
It never ejaculates.

I lay down next to the wall,
Kneel at the bottom of mountains
And stare into the keyholes
That live above knobs
In a house on a hill-
Made of brick filled with woody doors.

 

[sweepthefloor]

2.

Oh Lover!
You are a perfect T-Square
My mouth is the O compass-
A bow without sharps.
Prepare to draw come-
The DNA blueprints
Are spread in my throat-
And we are the engineers.

 

[sweepthefloor]

3

I drink your silk milk
Some Mister Silk milk
I am not a freak-
It is sicker than that.

My package is small
It is big in my mind
Your piece is large
And it is super fine.

Breaking my ass
And filling my glass-
I go travelling--
South with my mouth.

I am shaking it down
On your pelvic floor town-
My oral cavity is made to
Split all the wood you can carry.

Now bust it wide open.
Welcome to the neighborhood.

I am the little engine that could.

 

[sweepthefloor]

4.

My blood cultures came back positive for
An overgrowth of annoying.
I removed all possible lines of infection
From within my own system-
Changed the linens on my emotional bed
Sutured my own wounds
Wrapped my heart in sterile gauze
Pinched myself for a motor response
Wrote my own name on the white board.

Attenuated and needy is alluring sometimes but,
Systemic inflammatory response is not an option.

 

[sweepthefloor]

5.

I am just a platelet-
And you are a damaged endothelium.
My nature insists
That I stick to your wall
Now we are clots.
I do not mean to choke you
And we are occlusive-
Feed me the irreversible
Inhibitor of platelets,
I will be rendered inactive
And our blood flows-
All bleeding stops.
Give me five to seven days-
The lifespan of a platelet.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

How wonderful to read your poems, Hmmnmm and STF. You are inspiring. Must read back to the beginning of the week. *excited*

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Not sure I can do all of NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month in the USA) but will try at least for 7. Much inspired by other posters and lovely things happening in my offline life.


alpha and omega nestle
on the small vista
of her pudenda

unashamed letters clasp together
under the circle of her belly
the salutation and the signature
the welcome and the embrace
goodbye

good luck

bon voyage

they would probably
wave if they had fingers
so I do it for them

waves of fingertips
rustling the fine
russet hairs
below

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Dear Gourmand

I write to you from the île flottante
of a Bowery bistro
in a moat of half-whipped cream

and aware that I am quite
white and very nearly camoflaged
in egg white but trust
that I am warmer than you think

from appearances

and the caramel is harder
than you think also
caging the nipple of this
intoxication

so firmly tap
your metal spoon
edge into

a little heaven
sincerely
yours

 

[sweepthefloor]

How wonderful to read your poems, Hmmnmm and STF. You are inspiring. Must read back to the beginning of the week. *excited*

Thank you, PG.

 

[sweepthefloor]

6.

It is one, two, three strikes-
But you are never out baby
I am in love with you baby
And you can travel around all the bases-
You can love me for my looks-
Or my at-bat that makes you score.
I fly over second-
And always bring you home.
I am the catcher-
Behind our home plate,
Waiting on your fast pitch-
My hand stings from your hard ball-
You throw it harder.
Make me flinch-
I will always catch it.

 

[sweepthefloor]

7

In cold condemned buildings it is dark and dirty. There is a boy on the floor.
He has a blanket and she has a ten-cent candle. The girl is freezing and kneels down next to the boy with the blanket. He tells her: I have scabies I can’t share with you. She tells him: You have scabies and warmth, and I will soon have scabies, and this ten-cent candle. Her feet have no shoes; it was a match between a buck knife and bootlaces, and the buck knife won. They shiver and he scratches under the blanket. She slept safe all night and woke up loving him. He was a man with a blanket. The scabies blanket.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

3

Of all the betting parlors in hell I bet
the one with the most writers is
mud wrestling. Imagine Bukowski
strippled to swaddling, straddling a
nonplussed Hunter S. as Burroughs
leers, arms draped over intestine ropes.

Thompson smears mud over Bukowski's
sardonic mug and says "This is not a metaphor
for poetry, but for shit. This mud
is shit."

Bukowski licks mud from his wirey
moustache and proclaims it is shit poetry,
glaring at Burroughs as if he has introduced
a pollutant.

Thompson throws Bukowski off with a mighty
stagger and mutters "they'll let anyone
in here, these days."

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Harbored

It isn't violins, nor troubador
but bones in my back bounced
against a wall chosen mainly
for its bareness. Still, I sing
sighs at the thought of this
plan of you pressed between
shores you've caressed into
the harbor. The refrain
is the lapping of waves no longer
wistful but hungry for shore.

OR

V2

Harbored

It isn't violins, nor troubador
but bones in my back bounced
against a wall chosen mainly
for its bareness. This I imagine
and plan for you pressed

between shores you've
caressed to the harbor
where your boat is tethered
by sighs. The refrain is lapping
waves no longer wistful
but hungry for shore.

 

[PoetGuy]

002

.....

 

[PandoraGlitters]

5

Swimming in lace and lycra
in my underwear drawer waits
jarred beach glass in cool
colors (turquoise, navy, soft
blue) and warm caramel brown,
shell white, palest beige

but red is the rarest he says
no red but my love (red,

love, belated valentine not
yet mine). When I slide open
that drawer it is not smooth because
I overpull it to where the drawer
flops down a little--a thirsty tongue

lolling so I can hear his rattle roll and
remember the glass is only a little full
to save room for walks to come.

 

[PoetGuy]

003

.....

 

[sweepthefloor]

1.

I am my Father’s daughter
And that is a fine dinner for a girl of your size.

There are mosquito bites on thorax
And band-aids cover them up.

I am looking down at all legs
Sticks like Q-Tips for lower extremities-

It is the words of pick your head up
Ringing dinging in my ears

So I put my foot in my ear to clean my head out.

We are building an empire,
And sitting on a pile of wood chips

And drinking coffee on top of an antique lathe,
In the empty living room.

Because tables are meant for glasses, not asses-
But the one-ton wood lathe is a new table.

For paper cups, so we can sit on that.

 

[sweepthefloor]

2

You can take the girl off the track
And the track out of the girl-

You just have to send her to finishing school.
Put her in shoes, and give her some gloves.

Dear Gustavo!
What will she do with these books?

Walk with a straight back!
The books go on top a happy bed head.

Look up! Don’t let them drop.
Then she will read them.

 

[sweepthefloor]

3.

You have the wrong girl!
All the books drop-
Tears fall down and turn
Into flowers that fill a bath tub-
Sleep in it.

You got the wrong girl!
He never will touch-
And you will eat with two forks.

 

[PoetGuy]

004

.....

 

[sweepthefloor]

4

The fruit cheek-
Preserves my innocence.
It is from the jelly jar-
Smashed by my own hand
Jammed on my apples-
Spread blushing marmalade
The fruit face.

 

[PoetGuy]

005

.....