Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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The imagery you just don't want to see of what your parents do behind closed doors.


Reluctance
by Remec©


I don't want to hear about my mother's vagina,¹
Her bursitis,
or migraines, sure...
but no matter why it comes up,
hearing about that just reminds me
she has one
It makes me recall thumping beds...
closed doors and hushed voices
that think us kids are sleeping
when I'm trying to make my breakfast
and come upstairs
entering without knocking
seeing naked bodies entwined
sweat glistening in the mix of
bedside lamp and early morning sunlight
eyes staring in both directions
my feet starting to backtrack even before ordered out
I don't want to hear about it
'cause that'll make me remember arching backs,
bare breasts bobbing upon her chest,
and the "what if" that moves beyond what was seen
to what might have happened already
or may have happened later that morning
I don't want to hear
the furtive sighs and muffled gasps
that mingle with three decade old pictures of swimsuits
and skimpy summer dresses
to make my blood rise as I can't help but be reminded
that she was beautiful
and there's nothing for me to do but
surrender to my encaged yearns and lusts.²


¹ in "Oh, Mother!", by WickedEve ©2004.
² in "Bent", by Lauren Hynde ©2003.

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[LeBroz]

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A real look at some fun times {except perhaps for the 'babysitter'}.


Strawberry Farm
by Remec©


She eats every single one she sees¹,
I know.
I've been watching for a while now.
"Look after Cheryl", Mom had told me
when we arrived;
and I kicked the parking lot gravel,
but nodded and said I would.
I mean,
Cheryl's five, right?
She carries her own bucket;
she walks just fine;
no toddling, no weaving.
But I took her hand and set off,
"Not too far," Mom called to us,
and I nodded again,
settling along some thick bushes
three rows away;
within shouting range,
but out of those eagle eyes,
"Go get 'em, Cher," I said,
finding sis moments later, giggling and sharing a bush
with a friend she'd made on the fly;
and, behind them,
the friend's tender watched the pair
while I watched her;
blonde hair tinged appropriately,
stained fingers matching
the colour on her lips
and chin,
as the lingering juices
left by each bite she took
of every berry she picked
made me catch my breath,
feeling so much painful bliss.²




¹ in "Black Raspberry", by annaswirls ©2003.
² in "Tease My Empty Heart", by averagegina ©2004.

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[LeBroz]

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Now remember, erections lasting more than 4 hours should be reported to a doctor; if it's a male doctor, he'll want to tell you how bad that is; a female doctor may want a piece of the action. Then again, they both might want to wear you out.

Appropriate annotations were omitted from this piece.
The first line comes from ”Tears of Desire” by Miss Oatlash and
the final line comes from “an eye blink love” by BooMerengue.



Cialis 3 Viagra 1
by sandspike©


so long ago when we first met
love was a doubleheader
obivious to time and place
each game going extra innings
throwing smoke and hitting homers

now I need a reliever
blue pill good for one at bat
mechanical sex out of habit
recreation in an hourglass

well the batter's up my dear
Cialis saids 'let's play three'
Saturday's doubleheader, Sunday's night cap
playground open all weekend long
I smile to myself I am 16 and you are here

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a bit of erotica with hard-edged attitude. Soft, sensuous, and titillating this is not.


wearing your face
by SeattleRain©


In the wake of a seven forty seven
ripping open the zippered night sky,
he blows into the lobby ¹
Smoking table for one? Ten minute wait.

He tucks the pager deep into his front pocket
takes off baseball cap,
rakes through greasy hair and
sucks peppermints until his number is up.

Loose change jingles in the pager’s vibration
Damn baby, send that again, I didn’t quite
get your message.

Ignoring his crudity,
she leads him to the back table,
a plastic coated menu in hand.

Mormon records say he is dead
but pins and patches say different,
lined down that jean jacket like this Pretty Polly here
who offers him crackers with his winter harvest chili special
or if you prefer, we have home baked cornbread.


With this, she imagines him picking the gritty crumbs
that fall down to his baggy crotch
with his cracked yellow fingernails.

He however, cleans up the crumbs
with this new tongue licking slut
begging for morsels that fall.

Cock twitches its greeting
and Jimmy’s grinning like some disturbing
twisted whiskers greeting card dog with a human mouth
and bug eyes that bulge in surprise
of how fucking old you are getting.

New game:
how many times he can get her to say crackers
excuse me?
C r a c k e r s or C o r n b r e a d?
what and cornbread?
Crackers, crackers!

Suddenly this is her secret lover-code for
sliding his hot buttered cock between the cheeks of her pilates high kick ass
crackers, baby
come on fuck my ass

Opalescent lips press with the intolerance
of hair pulled back hard edged.
He just knows she was the Heather in high school
who spread herself for Daddy’s jacuzzi jets
while replaying that obscene phone call
what are you wearing, baby
over and over this time she swears will tell him
I am wearing your face
This time she will touch her pussy for him to check for wetness
instead of hanging up,
instead of listening silent while his breath grew more desperate,

This time she will tend to that unexplained burn
between hard pressed legs as requested

instead of waiting for the handle of Aunt Emma’s vacuum,
loud motor humming into mysterious places.


Her frigid act only dropped for the machines
never for a live cock and motor
and organic high pressure spray.


Still, he knows
she is just like everyone and would take him
two minutes flat if he got her half way down to the truth.

He uses the corner of the laminated tri-fold desert menu
to pick a string of spinach from the greasy cheese dip
stuck between his teeth.

Making sure she is watching,
he tongue kisses the five dollar bill
then in Sharpie thin point on clean napkin
he prints his number and:
Call me I can show you an appropriate replacement
for that stick you got up your ass
Tonight you can ride your fingers and plastic cock
or you can have the real thing, back at my place,
on your knees; without a single stitch.²


¹ in " Better than Sex ", by denis hale ©2004.
² in " Café au lait Casanova ", by neonurotic ©2003.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a little back roads country feeling to start off the weekend.


Memphis 212 Miles
by The Mutt©


Counting hours with you in this car,
watching your profile glide over time and miles
and See Rock City and the Bucksnort exit that always makes you smile--
I wish I played a steel guitar.

I’d write a country anthem
about a woman with a name like yours
and tip my hat down over my eyes
and sing you home.

The kind of song you can sing along to
when you’re drinking a beer with sawdust in your hair,
that makes you lay a wistful look across the table at your honey,
and she gives you a blow job in your Camaro ‘cause it’s your anniversary.

And they would know I sang about you
and I’d tell the juke box world
that love is twisty as a country road-- in wild horse saloons--
but it is straight as the crow flies in reality.
*****

1st line from Worm Moon by SeattleRain.
Last line from Crow Moon by Tathagata

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[LeBroz]

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With this contribution from tt2u, we bring down the curtain on the Thanksgiving Challenge. Hope you've enjoyed this look back at that creative year of 2004. Now I'll go back to the list of Editor's Choice poems to see what's there.


Escape from Everyday
by tungtied2u©


In silence we hide
the things everyone must know¹
but we refuse to accept

without a fight
we will not be pushed down
forced into mundaneness

our hearts know secrets
share in hushed voices
dreams, hopes and destinies

we have just now glimpsed
as we peak above the surface
from mankind’s murky existence

to achieve the extraordinary
escape from triviality is essential
with apprehensive anticipation

we begin moving with caution
through black water disturbing creatures
that lie waiting below²


¹ in "In One Sense", by annaswirls ©2004.
² in "Flash Back to The Bayou", by neonurotic ©2004.

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[LeBroz]

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Here're some street sounds from an unexpected source.


"New Blues..."

by Ancient117331©


"New Blues..."

Can ya listen to
the heartbeat
of the sou' street
from tha' backseat
as they whistle
to a new beat
from the front seat
with their white teeth
and ya starin' eyed
straight thru'
to the ones who
took da momma too
and ya daddy cries
inside
while you're outside
cause its all right
being upright
til ya outtasight
then its back to night.

Ain't no sunshine
in tha' day's light
just more night
as ya gather roun'
to lay it down
n' play tha' clown
cause its damn tight
bein' forthright
and standin' tall
as ya weigh it all
tho' ya feelin' small
cause ya sista cries
inside
while shes outside
and it ain't right
but ya still fight.

Streetlights
are the star lights
that ya wish bye
as they drive by
n' tha' sparkle high
as tha' caps sigh
light the city sky
callin' inside
and outside
as tha' dreams fry
and the babies cry
from the windows still
as ya guts spill
and ya eyes see -
nothin'.

Chris Twyford
Ancient117331

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[LeBroz]

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Here's one with a well deserved little greenie sure to pique your interest as you read it and perhaps inspire more than just a single read.


Mystery Man

by smithpeter©


some inner boat
bottomed steel
rivets below welds
decades smooth
then scrapped

lockers, slosh panels
floors substitute walls
corridors of cable
miles of forgotten craft

longer tunnels than nightmares know
strung lights dangle casting their
shadowed clank, trip and glow
along net patterned iron gangway
down the gutted throat
of a great lake freighter
name unknown to self or host
treads lumpy headed,
in a fog,
Raul

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[LeBroz]

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There's a hard edge here; not a pretty picture but painted so well you can't help but see it.


Neighborhood Postcards

by Preta©


1

He was a misanthropic old lung fish
breathing in great pantomime gulps,
fish mouthed bass inhalations
and cursing the very air that sustained him
on each chest rattling exhale.

Talking with a drowning victim
all burps and bubbles,
wet spittle lips,
the urge to clear your throat
to set an example.

Cigar smoke draped him
like a decaying Christmas wreath
brown and void of any warmth
dead celebrating death.

2)

You are nothing without her,
it all becomes nothing,
nothing funny,
nothing good,
nothing,nothing.

Nothing rears up,
slothful and poison and consumes hours
like eating peanuts,
discarding empty skulls
as shells underfoot,
the crunch of moving
toward nothing,
back to nothing,
emptiness is not nothing.
Nothing will help
Nothing makes sense at this point
Nothing washes away the dirty scum of belief
Nothing answers all your questions
Nothing helps your pain
Nothing

3)
The cross becomes an obstacle
to pleasure.
She eats bitter bread in her mothers kitchen and listens to Pink Floyd,
while engulfing sacred icons,
reverse birthing
as if to spit them out
with disgust
and life.

The Leonard Cohen records hint at the echo
that resounds in her cavernous womb,
dead births all,
dead and blind.
She takes herbal tea and regain her balance
ignoring zygotes
that swim in curdled cream.

4)
The first kiss,
his heart afire,
burning with
what?
what?
New sensations invade,
a small death
welcomed,
anything for her.
Yes,
anything.
The dead childhood falls off,
umbilical remnant,
of a life that can no longer support his dreams.

5)
To hit her again
is no big deal,
the precedent has established
anonymity.
Motherfucker,
deserves it.

He sits waiting,
praying the meal is cold,
right hand just itching.

6)
After 6 weeks
she smiles at the voice of her grandfather,
her body opens to the love he emotes,
there's no separation
no language to distinguish
he and I.

There is just warmth and love.

Years later
she will seek this in drugs and sex,
the last fix will bring
warm white light
and she will murmur " Grandpa'
in the alley.

No one will hear.

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[LeBroz]

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Wish these bugs would hush up; they're stomping all over the place, making my head throb and threatening to burst. Started celebrating my 10th anniversary early. And a special toast to the poet's final thoughts below.


Sangria Bloodshed

by jd4george©


Wineskin drippings
plastered across the front page,
spitting words I do not understand.
Americans curse in letters
three inches high
as photojournalists wait
for the proper light
to snap Pulitzer Prize winning stuff.

The blizzard drifts
from jungle sweat to banks
of powdered snow for the junkies
on Wall Street,
the New York cartels…
money and hype
and bullshit.

The cat knocks my arm,
spilling my wine and soaking
the page in sangrian ooze,
wiping out some sidebar story
about the families
and the victims.

Note to self: Next time,
be more careful with the wine.

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[LeBroz]

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With such sparse construction is such vivid imagery created.


peacock

by Kaishaku©


...dark roadway
within the headlights
......a peacock

.its tail unfurling
.....to a fan of stars

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[LeBroz]

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Now this is quite a stunning portrait of the working girl.


Prostitute

by Super_Genius©


You sit
sprawled back
relaxed
and bored
eyes glazed
glassy and red
mouth slack
cigarette poised
hanging loosely
from your lips
thick smoke
curling
dark fog
drifting from
your mouth
your breasts
exposed
and bruised
legs
open wide
naked
body sore
muscles tired
from hours of
overuse
used by men
object
of pleasure
never pleased
empty soul
filling
the void
with dense
gray smoke

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[LeBroz]

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A look at the aquatic environment gets the man a little greenie.


Reading The Waters

by hippiedude©


Reading the waters,
where oceans begin
and cities find survival,
he looks for cut-throats,
rainbows and browns.

They speak of secret life submerged,
seeking precious larvae,
rising for newly emergent hatches.
Little wonder that with each passing year
he grows more silent still.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's one sure to resonate with anyone still alive who ever experienced someone.


Reflection

by Miss_Morrigan©


He came and held her chin in his hand
To light her way ahead
He sees many scars
Dips stalactites in her pain
He thinks he knows
Assumptions made, voiced
Apocryphal
She came to him and offered her chin
He accepted and caressed it
And while looking into her eyes
He sees many scars
A world of vulnerability
And so he withdraws
He pulls back, afraid
Afraid of his own reflection
Now she waits patiently
She waits for the tide to turn
For the warmth to dissolve his insecurities
For him to cup her chin in his hand once more

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[LeBroz]

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A little look at what sounds like a Native American tale.


seminole decision

by steve porter©


he is nothing like stargazer
and rider of horses is glad

stargazer is slow and lazy
he is soft and cannot survive
without the aid of his family
he will die a young fool

meanwhile stargazer sits
day after day after day
he sits and he listens
and then one day decides
"I think I will paint the cliffs."

Seminole Canyon State Park
Langtry, Texas

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[LeBroz]

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An odd expression of love.


semi-sugar coated

by 4degrees©


odd traits and habitual
human-al
self preservation
reserving the right
for more self-degredation
camping out for the best seats
curiousity and compensation
after math of some fantasic feat
i suck at math
and can't define you in those
technical sex terms
that are strung together
by numbers instead of letters
but i got your number
remember
this later in some half hearted
flashback, some love letter
dumbstruck banal mental sitzbath
take this one moment
to bathe, before it fades
in the blinding light of bone-crushing
love i have for you.

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[LeBroz]

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A gem of a senryu.


senryu: threshing oats

by poetboy824©


threshing oats
cicada lands on my head
i scream like a little girl

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[LeBroz]

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Shhh — it's a timeless message here.


sleep

by eagleyez©


frozen
upon cavedoors
crests of families
scrawled as in crow scratchings
petrified
woodstone etchings seen
as sights
of purple aromas sensed
and histories revealed.

from afar
the dreams
seemed far away,

but now dust plumes
from ragged pages
now
the cough of ages
circles back
deep breaths
wrankle ribones and rustle
heartcages...

on a rock
in the sand,
surrender-
sleep.

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[LeBroz]

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The so self-righteous social workers, wrapped in pretentious altruistic good deeds, don't look so good here, in this scathing critique.


Social Work

by bogusbrig©


In Highgate Cemetery Karl Marx's great head frowns a little more
And his bones free from flesh rattle underground
On windy nights it is claimed you can hear him growl
Like a great bear stomping through the undergrowth
Trying to escape the pounding in his head

'Philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways.'

'The point is to change it!'​

While in the Dept of Social Services building
An anonymous glass mausoleum
An austere bastion of social hypocrisy
That houses a legion of social workers
Those arbiters of bourgeois angst
His bastardized philosophy is expounded
By his ungrateful disciples

She began with a head full of idealism
Then became conscientious between nine and five
Before she resentfully accepted her salary each month
Now she scours the internet for interesting friends

That's a pretty general question!
Her insistence on analysis slaps like a teacher's rule
Because she's wondering if a) He didn't read her page
Or b) He read it and decided it was superficial
Or c) He read it and had a specific question​

It was the peculiar looking boy
A pompous if intelligent little brat
Who became the celebration of France
That gave her reason enough
Though she saw herself as a latter day Simone

It's a one way ticket into the existential void
She deserved a little fun, a little experience
Her reward for doing a little bit of good
An escape from the self destructive addict
Trembling a dose into his arm

The Germans demanded too much self sacrifice
But the French…..well, they're French
It was the concentration on the self that excited
The power differential expressed through sex
The British were far too practical and expected redress

Happy to fool herself
To see philosophical depth
In self her indulgent whims
She fucked for Foucault
And read the story of O​

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[LeBroz]

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Sounds so much better than just speaking of tears.


Soul Pearls~

by My Erotic Tale©


Soul Pearls

soul pearls fall
after being grown
from a grain of thought

irritation
held
smothered
smoothed over

from life
and from love
made in the bottom of
the sea of the mind

till they flow in streams
and pool
to death

soul pearls fall
in sorrow

as they fall
in all worlds

drops of tears

glisten and sparkle
from life's ocean of love

soul pearls

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[My Erotic Trail]

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Sounds so much better than just speaking of tears.


Soul Pearls~

by My Erotic Tale©


Soul Pearls

soul pearls fall
after being grown
from a grain of thought

irritation
held
smothered
smoothed over

from life
and from love
made in the bottom of
the sea of the mind

till they flow in streams
and pool
to death

soul pearls fall
in sorrow

as they fall
in all worlds

drops of tears

glisten and sparkle
from life's ocean of love

soul pearls

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bows humble (~_~)

the loss of another... generally reaches into the soul a tad bit deeper than usual!

 

[LeBroz]

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If it's isolated where you live, such vivid imagery holds water unprotested; should you have neighbors nearby, however, they may place a call for the local gendarmerie to investigate a naked man running about.


Swim Quietly Until Dawn

by hippiedude©


You may not realize
that my house now lies;
where oceans once billowed with life,
but what I want you to know
is that late at night—
after everyone else
has drifted off to sleep—

I often watch from the upstairs window,
just beyond the moon glow’s reach,
as a phantom tide comes in
and my house becomes an island,
brushed by a warm
and ancient trade wind.

Then I remove my shoes
and softly steal away,
down the protesting stairs,
through the interrogating doorway;
walking silently along
the hissing grass lined path;
I come undetected to the water’s edge;
and listen to the tales
of the sojourning breeze.

You may be surprised to learn;
because I always go there alone;
I usually take off my clothes;
fold and arrange them neatly on the lawn;
enter the tepid water
and swim quietly until dawn.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a bit of imagery overload to wrestle with this lovely Sunday morning.


The ache has migrated

by annaswirls©


The ache has migrated
from behind the right eye to the left
unclench, unknot
trace the tributaries back to the source.

I hear your paddles slide through my pain.
You drop petals,
leave a trail for me to follow
as I search through the muck if it.

But baby this flower cannot be reconstructed,
put the paddles down
by the old Tannenbury bridge,
come find me beneath the willow
that weeps without shame.

You trace my pain back to its source
we spread it onto bread
and it soaks right in;
tastes of bitter almonds,
spoiled wine.

Yet we keep coming back
silver knives in hand,
silver brushes
paint the machinery
of the petal torn flower.

Meet me dusted in this pollen
born of humanity
you belong there still,
you preside there
still.

Pushing from the center
you keep your shape.
I tried to let you rest
yet still you press always outward,
holding back the collapse

its okay baby it is okay
to
let
go

float along my veins
you slide right through.

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[sophieloves]

that's one of the loveliest pieces i have read in years. so moving.

 

[LeBroz]

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Here's one with all the impact of a rollercoaster ride, taking you from a gray depressing reality up to a place of vivid sensual imagery and back; no wonder he's inviting you, at the end, to use that plastic bag.


The Escape To Xanadu

by bogusbrig©


It is whimsical to observe
An inflated plastic bag
Billowing in the turbulence
Created by a brute concrete tenement
The random rotation of rubbish
Hooked on a rusty latch

A fish gob desperately gulping
The swollen belly of a pregnant woman
Her dilating vagina ready for birth
The last gasps of a dying man

For three days it swirled like a jellyfish trapped in a current
Before a resourceful youth filled it with solvent and his buddy’s head
Every path has its detour and every detour its distraction
Games like this are escapes that fail to escape but tighten the trap
But for the now it is fine as you float above the rooftops

‘There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval.’

Actually, Upton Park doesn’t look bad from the position of a kite
High and getting higher until the mind disperses like smoke

Here can be Xanadu

The sultry Indian women
Discarding their dour western overcoats
Revealing flame bright saris
Dancing down Green Street
An explosion of Roman candles
Flashes of rainbow fire
Flickering…
......….to exotic sitar music​

The English rain
Hanging like strings
Of crystalline pearls

Fracturing grey light
Into random spectrums
Of dazzle rays

Opaque solids melting
Into translucent surfaces
And textured fabrics​

Silhouetted and pressed against the sky
With arms outstretched, fragile as Icarus wings
In conflict with gravity and falling fast
Tomorrow the social workers will arrive at dawn
...........................................................Like the Gestapo
To rebuild the fences but only higher
Roof the compound like an aviary

The plastic bag yawns ever wider
Inviting you into the beautiful
Enter headfirst and tie it around your neck
Ever tighter until the world expires

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