Dirty 30 in 30

#9

explaining messy missing teen

he's gone up in the rapture,
left his worn jeans
and shoes behind. we know
he's in a special heaven,
fitted with a gamer's gimpy wing.
there could be no other

explanation. a log against the door,
soft assault
weapon on the sofa,
and no boy in the house. rapture
snatched him up, and we believe

the microwave goop
is the boy's soul. raptures
are slick quick, leaving souls
behind. we are earthbound,
waiting on gimpy angel to come home.
 
Last edited:
#10

Is your love,
and cum,
your breathing
planned around your head?
I am not lashes,

not the skin of your lobes.
I'm more of an arch, even a shoe,
a comfortable shoe,
but you could get by
in brogues.

Your joy, that silly
joy is a chamber pot
that I must fill? You can squat
and live a day without me.
 
Is your love,
and cum,
your breathing
planned around your head?
I am not lashes,

not the skin of your lobes.
I'm more of an arch, even a shoe,
a comfortable shoe,
but you could get by
in brogues.

Your joy, that silly
joy is a chamber pot
that I must fill? You can squat
and live a day without me.

ooooooh!!
 
Is this the plane that came down in the Hudson?

yes! so glad you got it.
a really sad and scary situation inititially, but a wonderful ending. no fatalities. even the babies that were on board faired rather well. once everyone was assured (nyc residents in general) that it was in no way connected to terrorism, i think people felt more at ease. i've never seen so much elation over what started out as such a perilous event. my hat is off to the pilot. he made a split second decision that saved everyone's lives. i'm glad all the passengers seem to be doing quite well.
 
We flew into Vancouver on 9/11 and because we were more than halfway across we were allowed to carry on to Canada less than that and they had to turn back and a lot of English people ended up in Ireland and northern England. As it was they didn't tell us what had happened till we landed then kept us on the plane for 3 hours. When we did get into the airport lounge it was in uproar with loads of planes diverted there and troups everywhere pulling people out of queues at random. Took us hours to get through then we found our travel agent had sent us a day late and our tour had gone and we were stranded in a strange country that was in turmoil
 
#11

miscellany
and things,
sundries in columns,

glass pipettes,
zippers by the bag


We ponder the Plymouth's
lady-driven miles,
but we'd be better off
with a bubby horse,
a male Nova Scotia duck.

A stranger will assist
us with Russian pronunciation,
only if
we are Christian gentlemen.

We buy a box,
a middle of the room box,
with peep holes. Inside,
there is no variety.
 
Awesome. So good to read you here.

Title this "Black Russian" and you have your first survivor poem already written.

:devil:

miscellany
and things,
sundries in columns,

glass pipettes,
zippers by the bag


We ponder the Plymouth's
lady-driven miles,
but we'd be better off
with a bubby horse,
a male Nova Scotia duck.

A stranger will assist
us with Russian pronunciation,
only if
we are Christian gentlemen.

We buy a box,
a middle of the room box,
with peep holes. Inside,
there is no variety.
 
#12

Her little notebooks
are a stroke behind his ear, sometimes
a hound in her hands when

they extend toward him. He is catlike
about her small papers,
verbally pawing, "Which words bite?"
He wants to know

if he is a good boy
in other poems, but spiral-bound
rodents dangle out of reach.
 
#13

She's His Freak


"Get over yourself." She knows
there is no getting over
swinging bridge spiders,
suits of disrobed snakes, or dead squirrels
spread thin in sunspot middles.
It is coincidence that they begin

with S. He wants her sliding
up spiral staircases, not tying
four cylinder, metal strings around trees.
She doesn't do knots,

but he worries about her
wrapping and bow talk,
worries about crushed presents.
 
#14

We are middle-aged hip, swearing
when we're broken-hip-aged,
we won't travel with the herd.

We will wear cool t-shirts
and stay far from the cane pack.
"We're hip."

His boy tells us not to utter,
not to speak,
not to spit out hip.
We are not hip. We are
lame. "Drop me on the side of the road."

We turn down Bob Seager
and beg the boy to stay in the car
with us -- the groovy middle-aged couple.
 
umm...
I do best writing poetry when the mood strikes me. Days, even weeks, can go by before I'm poetically smacked.

um... my darling, you have like a whole year. plenty of time for punctuated smacking. Don't think I am going to keep this pace for long!

come on play.

we will smack you if you need it and we miss you :eek:
 
hahhah!!!! I was just talking to Ange about having a geriatric wing at literotica when we get really old.

I am actually kind of jealous of you writing, alll freeee....

although this one would fit the trigger of secret pleasures


or just change road to highway, and it would count for that one.


:devil:

I am going to start filling out a score card for you.


We are middle-aged hip, swearing
when we're broken-hip-aged,
we won't travel with the herd.

We will wear cool t-shirts
and stay far from the cane pack.
"We're hip."

His boy tells us not to utter,
not to speak,
not to spit out hip.
We are not hip. We are
lame. "Drop me on the side of the road."

We turn down Bob Seager
and beg the boy to stay in the car
with us -- the groovy middle-aged couple.
 
#15

Don't Ask for Directions

Hang a left, left,
right,
'nother left. Go on by
my Aunt Lulu's house; house burned down
back in '79.

Then blacktop turns to
dirt and you'll see 'nother dirt
road but don't take that one.
Keep goin'. You'll end up

on a squirrel jump road. Go to the end
and you'll fall off the world. So stop
before you get there

and that's where we'll be.
 
Back
Top