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Dirty 30 in 30

#16

Hugo calls me geek girl,
with my two Transcend
flash drives that hang
like lightweight albatrosses

around my neck.
Two gigs,
four gigs,
that's fifteen hundred
ACDC,
ABBA songs ready to plug into my Kenwood
USB port,
ready to Mama Mia me
and Highway me To Hell
on two front,
two back
Kickers.

Hugo
and I download MP3 versions
of old favorites
lost on our 8-tracks.
 
annaswirls said:
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....
.
Click to expand...

Well, if the hangout forum doesn't work, then we'll see about making it into the old poets' home. I kind of like that. lol

Writing free? I'm writing like I don't give a damn and like I'm writing whatever I damn please. And it can be ugly. :D
 
WickedEve said:
Hugo calls me geek girl,
with my two Transcend
flash drives that hang
like lightweight albatrosses

around my neck.
Two gigs,
four gigs,
that's fifteen hundred
ACDC,
ABBA songs ready to plug into my Kenwood
USB port,
ready to Mama Mia me
and Highway me To Hell
on two front,
two back
Kickers.

Hugo
and I download MP3 versions
of old favorites
lost on our 8-tracks.
Click to expand...

TWO flash drives on neck lanyards? ABBA? Hugo's wrong! You aren't a geek you're a nerd! WickedNerd! :D

(Even geeks don't listen to ABBA!)
 
#17

Safe_Bet said:
(Even geeks don't listen to ABBA!)
Click to expand...

I listen to ABBA on one damn cool car stero!

----------------------------------------------------------

His brow creases
when her day is slick,
when she is an oiled
and empty cat, when she slips
on sunlight into eve,

when sweetness runs thin. She has slumped
in the backseat,
by the water. She has slumped,
like a grave marionette of dead wood
and string.

She carries,
for him, green bitter bottles
of immediate lime.
 
Last edited:
WickedEve said:
Well, if the hangout forum doesn't work, then we'll see about making it into the old poets' home. I kind of like that. lol

Writing free? I'm writing like I don't give a damn and like I'm writing whatever I damn please. And it can be ugly. :D
Click to expand...

Ugly? shut up you are a fucking genius

You are best free.... sweet dogwood man was right. of course
 
annaswirls said:
Ugly? shut up you are a fucking genius

You are best free.... sweet dogwood man was right. of course
Click to expand...
Ah, dogwood man is a great name for him. I miss him a lot, still.
How do I do the survivor thing? I admit it, I never read anything about it. Ange said something about forms!
 
WickedEve said:
Ah, dogwood man is a great name for him. I miss him a lot, still.
How do I do the survivor thing? I admit it, I never read anything about it. Ange said something about forms!
Click to expand...

He is your dogwood man, that is for sure, always will be.


Survivor. Seriously, it is not so bad. I actually had FUN writing the double dactyl. I am not doing the evil ones until last. You get to do whatever form you want for 25 out of the 50 poems, just follow one of the handy triggers.

Everyone is being cool about it. Kind of stumbling through it for the most part, some have it down, but most are just muddling through and are being awesome sports about it!

Read the Rules

Come on girl, all the cool kids are doing it. :cool:
 
#18

blood sister of whipping flesh,
vibrantly vulnerable,
in waiting,
waiting for violence,
no violins,

the proper strap --
aerodynamically holy,
oh god,

dsp.jpg


the holes.
a poem written on soldering surfaces
of highballs,
pyrography,
donna's pain.
 
#19

Tadpoles,
some never came to be.
Poked with twigs, jelly clung
and slid,
and frog-plopped.
Salamanders,
we trapped a few with our hands,
named them all Sally.

If a Sally wrote a poem,
I probably couldn't relate —
unless insects taste good on crackers.

Besides, we all get hungry.
I'll write about cheese on crickets,
leave the poem down by the moss covered bog.
 
WickedEve said:
Tadpoles,
some never came to be.
Poked with twigs, jelly clung
and slid,
and frog-plopped.
Salamanders,
we trapped a few with our hands,
named them all Sally.

If a Sally wrote a poem,
I probably couldn't relate —
unless insects taste good on crackers.

Besides, we all get hungry.
I'll write about cheese on crickets,
leave the poem down by the moss covered bog.
Click to expand...

Welcome back, you sick puppy, you.
 
#20

From three corners
to the middle of the room,
Emmett moves his chair,
moves his chair,
moves his chair, and like most chairs,
it is functional.

The chair sits Emmett straight,
gives him board-back,
the way Mother insisted on.
No comfort in this chair,
and Emmett is comfortable with that.

The window is too far from middle of the room.
Window cannot be moved.
Emmett moves his chair
from the middle to the last corner
so he can ponder.

The outside slouches on corners,
in the middle,
bustling ease on all edges.
Far window is too close to comfort.
 
#21

By evening he is nearly two halves
of a grapefruit, with full bitter rind.
A small portion of Emmett
has fallen away and into the sweetness.
It is a weary wedge
that will be dipped in the sour
before morning.
 
WickedEve said:
It's the cheese on the crickets, right?
Click to expand...

In Lonesome Dove, one of my favorite ever novels, a character who is the cook on a cattle drive serves the cowboys fried crickets dipped in honey. And they love them, not at first, but they do. But to answer your question, yes. :)
 
There are few poems I want to eat. I want to eat this poem. Or at least stick it behind my ear.

Can I make two suggestions?

Since I will be ingesting it later, I feel I have the right.

WickedEve said:
From three corners
to the middle of the room,
Emmett moves his chair,
moves his chair,
moves his chair, and like most chairs,
it is functional.

The chair sits Emmett straight,
gives him board-back,
the way Mother insisted on. (get rid of on)
No comfort in this chair,
and Emmett is comfortable with that.

The window is too far from middle of the room.
Window cannot be moved.
Emmett moves his chair
from the middle to the last corner
so he can ponder.

The outside slouches on corners,
in the middle,
bustling ease on all edges.
Far window is too close to comfort.
Click to expand...


Last line sounds way too much like too close for comfort so that it made me cringe. Even if you remix the sentence a little bit, more like that crazy town phrasing you have going, sister sayer.

To comfort, even far window is too close.

or something like that.

Hope you do not mind.

and it is fine as is too
 
22

annaswirls said:
There are few poems I want to eat. I want to eat this poem. Or at least stick it behind my ear.

Can I make two suggestions?

Since I will be ingesting it later, I feel I have the right.




Last line sounds way too much like too close for comfort so that it made me cringe. Even if you remix the sentence a little bit, more like that crazy town phrasing you have going, sister sayer.

To comfort, even far window is too close.

or something like that.

Hope you do not mind.

and it is fine as is too
Click to expand...

This Emmett character popped into my head awhile ago and I'm writing quick poems, trying to do a rough draft of Emmett. So comments are welcome. Everything is runny and uncooked.




Black feathers dampen the chair.
Shades of blue happiness once perched
in the middle,
away from crouching corners.

Comfort must fly
in through far window,
so Emmett can pluck and dye
and flaunt his talent in front of the chair.
 
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