Dirty 30 in 30

[PandoraGlitters]

Dirty Twenty

Ugh. No way am I going to get 30 by the 30th. I may simply try to write 30 poems and leave it at that. Still, I'll try my best.


Winter Haiku

Wind scratches winter's
monogram on my window;
wings cut the white sky.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Dirty Twenty One

When to Spit and When to Swallow

A lady knows when she should spit,
and when it's best to swallow.
A lady knows. When, she should spit?
(Of course, she may not speak of it)
from lung to air must follow.
A lady knows when she should spit,
and when it's best to swallow.


(Ok, this is a lame triolet, but waddayawant? I had to follow up the serious Haiku with something a little smutty, right?)

 

[unpredictablebijou]

When to Spit and When to Swallow

A lady knows when she should spit,
and when it's best to swallow.
A lady knows. When, she should spit?
(Of course, she may not speak of it)
from lung to air must follow.
A lady knows when she should spit,
and when it's best to swallow.


(Ok, this is a lame triolet, but waddayawant? I had to follow up the serious Haiku with something a little smutty, right?)

*laughter, applause*

Hey, maybe this will help: you've actually got two number fifteens (both of which are mighty fine) so you're actually one ahead of where you thought you were.

bj

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Yay! that helps. Thanks for noticing, BJ.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

IMHO Fool and Dora just pulled some genius writing out of the bag

 

[Tzara]

21

When to Spit and When to Swallow

A lady knows when she should spit,
and when it's best to swallow.
A lady knows. When, she should spit?
(Of course, she may not speak of it)
from lung to air must follow.
A lady knows when she should spit,
and when it's best to swallow.

A Gentleman Responds

This gentleman's opinion is
It is the lady's choice which way
That she disposes of his jizz.
This gentleman's opinion is
No matter what she does with his
"Deposit," well, it's all okay.
This gentleman's opinion is
It is the lady's choice which way.


.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Dora, even if you don't make the 30 days, don't stop. Remember, this is just about continuing to write. There is no Fail in this thread. And besides, you're doing extraordinary work. As usual.

bj

 

[Tzara]

22

First Try at a Double Amphibrach
(Not quite right, I think, but I'm working on it.)

Gerard Manley Hopkins
(A Jesuit Father)
Wrote poems wildly rhythmed,
Allit'ratively.

So crazy, they're almost
Hallucinogenic.
The guy's no aphasic,
Though, definitely.


.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

First Try at a Double Amphibrach
(Not quite right, I think, but I'm working on it.)

Gerard Manley Hopkins
(A Jesuit Father)
Wrote poems wildly rhythmed,
Allit'ratively.

So crazy, they're almost
Hallucinogenic.
The guy's no aphasic,
Though, definitely.


.

Tzara the Eloquent,
diligent formalist,
rushes through iambs,
seducing the chicks,

though he may cheat and write
anti-dactylically,
nevertheless it plays
well in the sticks.


.

 

[The_Fool]

B-8

You really are quite wicked, you know that?

And my response...

There is the optimist
counterbalanced by the pessimist.
Slide me
towards the wicked side
of the scale.
I can't help it
I find most things
in life
quite erotic.
Seeking feminine wiles
in complex contours
hot and cold to the touch.
Even though none yield,
none sigh,
like her when I caress her thigh.

 

[The_Fool]

IMHO Fool and Dora just pulled some genius writing out of the bag

TY....Just throwing shit against the wall to see what sticks....

 

[UnderYourSpell]

First Try at a Double Amphibrach
(Not quite right, I think, but I'm working on it.)

Gerard Manley Hopkins
(A Jesuit Father)
Wrote poems wildly rhythmed,
Allit'ratively.

So crazy, they're almost
Hallucinogenic.
The guy's no aphasic,
Though, definitely.


.

Is that a wrestling hold?

TY....Just throwing shit against the wall to see what sticks....

What a lovely picture you do paint your generosity is only excelled by your facial beauty!

 

[champagne1982]

Dirty Twelve

I seem to be in story starting mode these days. Plot bunnies are jumping into my head like breeding ermmm, rabbits. If I ever finish any of these, I'll have enough for the main Survivor.

Anna

"She is lovely." His fingertip raised her chin and turned her face to the side and he continued, "See her downy curve of cheek; her ears, delicate --." His hand moved and she felt his fingers against the bare skin on her nape, just above the fawn linen collar, high on her neck. His palm cupped her jaw and he gazed at her face, his eyes connecting with hers. She saw the slight nod and dropped her lashes in a blink of acknowledgement.

Her chin dipped down, demurely. Her husband continued, "Yes, I have always been taken by her beauty. She came to me quite young. Her father dowering her with the release of my gambling debt. Thank God for my title or I'd have still been paying him off." He released her and walked to the door. Opening it he shouted into the hallway, "Betsy! Your lady is in need of your attendance!"

She squeezed her eyes shut and quivered with excitement. The last thing she wanted was to let Harold know how much she looked forward to the next few hours. His voice lowered conspiratorially as he stepped out of the room and addressed the American visitor, "So, it's agreed then, Mister James? Let's go to my study and have a drink while you sign the papers. I'm sure Anna will be worth your generosity."

Anna thanked God that Harold was a reckless card player. He had settled into a pattern of betting big, winning small and losing often. Often enough that sometimes she became his currency. The first occasion was a mere three weeks after their wedding. Harold had waken her in the wee hours of the morning and bundled her, wrapped in a heavy shawl into a cab. His only words, instructions that she was to raise no defense against the gentleman she was about to meet. Once Harold had delivered her, dressed in naught but her nightdress and bloomers she soon was educated in her true value to her new husband.

There had been several more over the next few years; some kind and capable of giving her pleasure, some needful of cleverly inflicted pain either on themselves or on her, some were paid more than once. Always these exchanges ended in sex and once she was home and bathed, Harold would use her. He actually preferred to fuck her after she'd been whipped, his fingers digging into her welted and torn flesh. He'd slap her and call her whore all the while rocking his pelvis so that his erection glided against her sensitive parts. She couldn't help but orgasm during sex and Harold seemed capable of delaying his relief for an interminable time, using her response as fuel to debase her even further.

At first Anna was mortified by her response until she learned that many men, even while calling her a contemptible whore, would fuck her hard and draw out her pleasure as long as they could. Now, she anticipated her husband's poor luck and impetuous betting even though they often resulted in a cruel beating, she had been debauched enough that her pleasure overrode any fear.

 

[Tzara]

Twenty-three

Tzara the Eloquent,
diligent formalist,
rushes through iambs,
seducing the chicks,

though he may cheat and write
anti-dactylically,
nevertheless it plays
well in the sticks.


.

Now, now. You're switching between dactyls and amphibrachs.

Switching. Hmmm. OK, probably your nature.

If you want me to be strict (oh my!) about dactyls, how about this:

Higgletay, piggletay.
Hopkins, G. M. (SJ)
Wrote poems alarmingly
Allit'rative.

Molehills to mountains: Kin,
Antediluvian?
Dactyls swapped; amphibrachs—
Iterative.​

Right at the moment, I am thinking about playing with some of those sticks. The thin and kind of whippy ones, frankly.

Idle thoughts from an idle poet, surely.

 

[Tzara]

Is that a wrestling hold?

It absolutely could be. A pin move, in fact.

*Idly contemplates UYS held helpless in a double amphibrach, wondering if I might tease an IAMB! out of that clutch.*

 

[The_Fool]

B-9

Channelling Vella.....

It starts off with desire.
(So what else is new.)
But this desire is to tease,
to please,
to find ways of tying knots
in quivering flesh
where she begs me to stop,
wants me to not.
It starts off with a tactile
fascination,
a sublime sensation
upon my tongue.
Chuckling into her sex
when she screams.
But then I find that she has
captured me.
And I am subjugated
by her response
and mine.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I seem to be in story starting mode these days. Plot bunnies are jumping into my head like breeding ermmm, rabbits. If I ever finish any of these, I'll have enough for the main Survivor.

Anna

"She is lovely." His fingertip raised her chin and turned her face to the side and he continued, "See her downy curve of cheek; her ears, delicate --." His hand moved and she felt his fingers against the bare skin on her nape, just above the fawn linen collar, high on her neck. His palm cupped her jaw and he gazed at her face, his eyes connecting with hers. She saw the slight nod and dropped her lashes in a blink of acknowledgement.

Her chin dipped down, demurely. Her husband continued, "Yes, I have always been taken by her beauty. She came to me quite young. Her father dowering her with the release of my gambling debt. Thank God for my title or I'd have still been paying him off." He released her and walked to the door. Opening it he shouted into the hallway, "Betsy! Your lady is in need of your attendance!"

She squeezed her eyes shut and quivered with excitement. The last thing she wanted was to let Harold know how much she looked forward to the next few hours. His voice lowered conspiratorially as he stepped out of the room and addressed the American visitor, "So, it's agreed then, Mister James? Let's go to my study and have a drink while you sign the papers. I'm sure Anna will be worth your generosity."

Anna thanked God that Harold was a reckless card player. He had settled into a pattern of betting big, winning small and losing often. Often enough that sometimes she became his currency. The first occasion was a mere three weeks after their wedding. Harold had waken her in the wee hours of the morning and bundled her, wrapped in a heavy shawl into a cab. His only words, instructions that she was to raise no defense against the gentleman she was about to meet. Once Harold had delivered her, dressed in naught but her nightdress and bloomers she soon was educated in her true value to her new husband.

There had been several more over the next few years; some kind and capable of giving her pleasure, some needful of cleverly inflicted pain either on themselves or on her, some were paid more than once. Always these exchanges ended in sex and once she was home and bathed, Harold would use her. He actually preferred to fuck her after she'd been whipped, his fingers digging into her welted and torn flesh. He'd slap her and call her whore all the while rocking his pelvis so that his erection glided against her sensitive parts. She couldn't help but orgasm during sex and Harold seemed capable of delaying his relief for an interminable time, using her response as fuel to debase her even further.

At first Anna was mortified by her response until she learned that many men, even while calling her a contemptible whore, would fuck her hard and draw out her pleasure as long as they could. Now, she anticipated her husband's poor luck and impetuous betting even though they often resulted in a cruel beating, she had been debauched enough that her pleasure overrode any fear.

10 plus for 'debauched' !!

It absolutely could be. A pin move, in fact.

*Idly contemplates UYS held helpless in a double amphibrach, wondering if I might tease an IAMB! out of that clutch.*

Will there be any 'probing'?

 

[wespeak]

7

I'm playing catch up since I've been sick and not able (really just not feeling like it) to post poems. I did write some during the past couple of weeks to post... if I can read my scribbles.

I'll start with a chicken soup poem. My ER doctor was really into chicken soup, according to the nurses. He even wrote it on the paper he sent home with me: Chicken Soup!


Thank you Doctor Chicken Soup
for the codeine syrup. I am in a suppressed
stupor, in awe of Smoking Gun. Danny Bonaduce
and Leif Garret are sexy.
One more spoonful. Very,
very sexy.

 

[wespeak]

8

He is compressed
air, nudity; still
the room is electric.

On his boy-cut blues
I snap
his ink -- faded turquoise youth.
Wild-haired wonder and I do

wonder. Driving on the long winding Bleak,
beyond comfort -- comfort is an entire
bed with too many pillows --
thoughts blurred the peripheral,
the lowing fields.

But in the wonder of his flashed eyes,
I am past the tiresome easy
and our dreary six month winter.

 

[wespeak]

9

She is Olga --
Olga squatting
by the yellow fountain.
Her companion has one
arm. He is not a lizard
with tails of regeneration,
nor some old child
who bites with adult teeth.

Companion dropped his arm
when he was young,
and now she aims him
at the fountain.

Olga does want to be
in the New Yorker.
She is far too busy.

 

[wespeak]

10

Randolf's Bathroom

The vodka is incognito
in the linen closet -- a clear liquid
burn, wrapped in bath towel turban,
armed with mean green cleaner
bomb. I believe the vodka has gone terrorist
on Randolf's ass.

 

[wespeak]

11

The Rabbit is a boy
and the boy is an ivy vine
goth doll that some child,
some darkling sick child,

costumed in demon-sparkle
behemoth belt and violent violet
striped hoodie.
Bad girl rotted his nails black banana
black, hung his hair from a noose.

I want to feed the Rabbit,
that whittled-down bone boy,
but no meat for thieves --
Rabbit in my midnight liner.

 

[wespeak]

12

The dog could be Telly Savalas
but her hair is hypersexual --
fucking, procreating.

All I ask is for a bed,
one that I can have my way,
like fast food,
hold the shedding.

I accept the middleaged lumps,
sunken midriff springs,
though it slumbers me past alarms.

Please wash the sheets and let sleeping
dogs lie outdoors.

 

[wespeak]

13

You are malted barley,
a fermented grain
that once poured stoutly

into my slender
heated glass.

But no longer are you good
ale that leaves me giddy forgetful
of your Hyde-coated tongue
and flaccid frustration.

 

[wespeak]

14

No afterward mint,
after the roast.
No zesty penetration, followed
by cigarettes. Only ziggurats
of sun-baked bricks and pink
fishing maggots on conveyor belts.