all of a sudden passion suddenly

[vampiredust]

Neighbours

The drawing of curtains
is like an invisible line
being drawn in the dark,
that battle always fought.

Nobody ever sees them,
that's the beauty of it all.
We get to imagine whether
he will unfold her like pages

of a photo album, whether
she will unzip herself
and reveal the light that's
been flashing for twenty

years. Remove the mystery
and all you will ever see
is a trail of popcorn and roses
closing, cut off from their electricity.

 

[vampiredust]

The Inadequacy of Foxes

Stop me if you've heard
this before, he crowed,
his cockerel-quiff hardening
when the audience started
glaring, eyes tracking him
like a dog tracking a fox.
This one is about dolphins
and and hoops. Symbolic
of God. Stop me if you've
heard this before. Or
had enough, your feet
sniffing the ground,
attracted by the scent
of someone leaking blood.

 

[WickedEve]

There, middle of red
hearts field, days after fourteenth
love, no words for him,
yet sadness, dried
by grave winter gusts.

An impulse,
unfinished meals of conversation,
faces like eaten bread, maybe
mind crumbs,
unsure what brought me.

It smelled the dead
on the soles of my shoes -- dog
(bone-hungry for its own ribs)
stray no more. Black and bent
woman, her voice,

like charred crosses.
"I've been through worse."

 

[vampiredust]

Masks

Her living room wall
was covered with the masks
of former lovers. Some
had been peeled off
with acid, others stitched
off in their sleep. None
spoke to me like the lips
on her pillowcase.
I looked for the place
where mine might go
but there was only a plinth
and a pair of hooded crows,
sharpening their beaks
like knives.

 

[WickedEve]

A Conrad Dimple Poem III
The Python
from the channeled spirit of Conrad Dimple


"Blitzlightpuver, Boy!" bellows Heinz,
our light, line and shadow hunter.
"I must capture Mister Tweedy!"

Boy (his Christian name,
a series of grunts) carries flash powder
tins on his back.

The campsite is crackle
and darkness.

Pop!
Smoke.

Black dust settles on scales
and calves, ankles,
bare feet, still kicking,
like fresh baby in the field.

Dear Mistress Tweedy,

Three nights it coiled in Mister Tweedy's
sleep sack, slumbering not,
watchful, waiting.

If only we had made it
into stew...

Sincerely,
Conrad Dimple​

 

[WickedEve]

Clingstone plum! I shouted
into the air and he turned, aware
of his new label.

"So I am no longer a snake
but a clingstone plum?"

Your flesh,
the better part of you, clings
to the pit.

 

[tungtied2u]

I feel my future slipping away
sucked speck by speck
through the bottleneck
of an illusory hourglass

caught in a vacuum
where my strangled screams
go unheard except for the echoes
in the chambers of my hollow heart

Off balance the center sinks
I am strained, the grains
of my existence disassembled
into insignificant dust

as they fall the last few feet
unrecognizable, indistinguishable
from others whose fate preceded me
and those who soon shall follow

 

[ElmerGlew]

.....

 

[vampiredust]

Final Weather

Her respiratory system
malfunctioned due
to the presence of a storm
in her lungs. Breathing released
an escaping thunderclap
that shook the ward like a 9.5
on the Richter Scale.
She would cry rain and praying
made grey clouds cover the whites
of her eyes. Lighting made
her fingertips glow blue,
moving the hands instantly
slowing them; as if their power
had been interrupted
by something unearthly.

 

[WickedEve]

two floors of shell-pink,
tin, rust,

the water tower,
hay rolls, red roofs,
and fallen barns,
metal bridge,
stacked ties and crossings,

and I drive past little california
on my way to you.
on my way inside:

"hey baby,
what's your sign?"
fur asks the dust.
they're easy

in your bedroom, pickup spot.
they don't need to get a room.
they have yours --
now a nursery for zillions
of offspring.

you are pathetic in the root
of one hair,
disturbing in a fingertip,
mean in the skin-patch
behind your knee.

the rest of you? I'll always
be on my way to.

 

[Angeline]

two floors of shell-pink,
tin, rust,

the water tower,
hay rolls, red roofs,
and fallen barns,
metal bridge,
stacked ties and crossings,

and I drive past little california
on my way to you.
on my way inside:

"hey baby,
what's your sign?"
fur asks the dust.
they're easy

in your bedroom, pickup spot.
they don't need to get a room.
they have yours --
now a nursery for zillions
of offspring.

you are pathetic in the root
of one hair,
disturbing in a fingertip,
mean in the skin-patch
behind your knee.

the rest of you? I'll always
be on my way to.

I love it! Especially that strophe I bolded! More people should give you feedback. Your poems are so good.

<apologies to the spirit of sp for my not being poetic>

 

[WickedEve]

I love it! Especially that strophe I bolded! More people should give you feedback. Your poems are so good.

<apologies to the spirit of sp for my not being poetic>

You are equivalent to 10, so it's all good.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

You are equivalent to 10, so it's all good.

I'll give it another 10, at least. You're hot these days, Eve.

 

[WickedEve]

I'll give it another 10, at least. You're hot these days, Eve.

Thanks, dear. I haven't written much poetry in ages but right now I'm in a poetry writing mood, and I'm going to go for it while I can!
Actually, Hugo is inspiring me. I even use poetry as a threat. "Make me angry and I'll write a hateful poem about you."

 

[WickedEve]

Fris breath,
vodka spin,
veins pop Aerosmith,

pain eats the tender sections.
Hot orange targets thigh.
A black run on Bratton's

would be fucked.
Beneath him,
fucked.

 

[anonamouse]

I'll give it another 10, at least. You're hot these days, Eve.

humbly I third this, good to see one of lit's treasures and one of my personal faves back in action.
Bogus writung again...

now if anna would just come back
it'll be alright*

paraphrase of lou reed (I think)

 

[vampiredust]

Paper

She smelt of paper. Not
of industrial newspaper
with its dripping vinegar
ink but of the handmade

variety made in presses
by people with forgotten
names like Ulysses or
Marmaduke. Watching them

turn the corkscrew press
reminded her of the way
a surgeon made the blood
in her arteries flow the right

way, emptying its black
and smelly words. If you
had seen them in the sink
you might have tried

to forget the headlines
they formed, each one
still ringed by her red pen,
highlighting another loss.

 

[vampiredust]

Schoolyard

The window's bleeding
gums. A half-chewed
moon on the derelict
pitch of his youth.
And the sun's remains
casting their shadow
on the broken frames
and smashed bricks.

 

[RhymeFairy]

playing with passion ....

It's been far too long,
since I sipped - passion.

I've popped it's cork
let it breathe, for minutes

on end. Swirled in my glass
to stew - ripe rejuvenating

fruit. Yearning for a taste
test - I stop. Sensibility

tells me, to keep watch,
it shall only get better

with age.



...

tick-tock ... tick-tock

 

[vampiredust]

Middleman

The oaks lying by the roadside
were like upturned crowns.
A nest of stiffened roots,
aerials waiting to receive
instructions from some
heavenly body. A blackbird's
body lay between the oldest
one, its eyes decoding
the transmission as it fell.

 

[tungtied2u]

can you step outside yourself
into a day to day existence
bags of wheat, grains ground with stone
roots boiled over over an open fire
with water drawn from an age old well

can you see yourself devoid of cover
huddled with family members
for warmth, covering each other
until day breaks and the suns rays
replenish you with another days desire

too often we forget where we are
is just a matter of chance, these blessings
however hard we've struggled, give thanks
the wind shifts in the blink of an eye
obliterating the reality we take for granted

 

[WickedEve]

hologram elvis in concert,
or stay home,
plug our heads in? his and hers
sockets on the pillows, darling.

minds slip to graceland
as we go down.

 

[Angeline]

Fuck the people
with the long poems. Poets
who pull words out of the wind,
out of the whirl of sutra-genius
to paint them on pages like silk
carresses skin. Fuck their deep
meaning, their nuance, fuck
their metaphor and alliteration,
their syndoche similes can go
to hell in a handbasket and while
we're at it fuck the people
with the short poems, the haiku
harridens, the koen carriers
who dip the toe of your awareness
into the lake of nature imagery,
the waves that cymbal crash
or gut punch. That's right you
know who I mean. Fuck
their murmuring trees and finger branches
that reach into bones, pinch
until you remember the gravel
at mountain's edge and the long
climb up to the end of the world.
Fuck them. The medium people,
the middle people, the mulling
multitudes who ever thought
they were speaking to you and me?
Fuck me, too. Fuck this sunny day,
fuck my possibilities, drag me
into the light and poke me
with critique but please, please
read my poem.

 

[WickedEve]

Fuck the people
with the long poems.

Your poem is too long.

Hey, I like this poem more than most of your poems. It's my kind of poem. I actually love it. I actually want it to be my poem. I'm actually telling you the truth!

 

[Angeline]

Your poem is too long.

Hey, I like this poem more than most of your poems. It's my kind of poem. I actually love it. I actually want it to be my poem. I'm actually telling you the truth!

You can't have it!

I read your post in the blurt thread and it made the poem come out. You're my muse. Or maybe you're finally rubbing off on me.

Read the poem in the bistro thread. It's your kind of poem too. I thought of you at the Glamour Hut when I read it.