Dirty 30 in 30

[unpredictablebijou]

x-5

Nothing like a love letter
2.

It could have been. It could have been deep,
sweet and lively if you had only let
some third dimension wander in and teach you
how to love, how not to be afraid. You knew
only names, only titles, and never
found the roots in time to grow taller.

These days I watch, both up close
and at a distance, as they destroy themselves
blindly, waving their fists at ghosts, shouting
as they drive over cliffs
about how nothing is up to them.

Where has my compassion gone, these days? As your tools
turn against you and you sink in that inevitable swamp
I should be sad. There is no reason
for anything but pity. Less than a month, less than two, since
you drowned, and would not take my hand. But pain
gets passive, nursed long enough, and leaves
empty pots, like the planters
on the porch, full of dry leaves, bare stems.

I trim the vines from the fence, tearing
roped stems away and untangling myself
from my own hands. If I must, then yes,
I’ll wave goodbye, knowing
you did the best you could. You could not see
your own value, and let
ravens pluck out your eyes. You welcomed them
and I could not wave them all away
in time to save your vision.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-6

I want, today

the way that dark and semi-sweet
finds the tongue, and the sound
of real desperation, however simple
however momentary
reaches the ear.

Bring me out
of my apathetic dream, however you can
break under the needle wheel
under the skin rage of substitutes
under the fingertip trap of our
salty dream, of our outrageous lengths.

something far more divine, this force
that enters to burn you
the way you want
to be burnt.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-7

whew. I have, in fact, been writing. Just not being able to be on teh interwebz at all. Noodles. fast little drafts. airy things, dashed off in corners. As quick, as undefined, as the rest of my days, these days.



in Time

sunday and monday, we meet in sideways
circumstances, waiting for those quick
moments outside the door, those short
times of the mouth, all hungry and
only slightly sad. If we didn’t know

or trust time to move, it would be
different, but there will be Tuesday and
the next time, the next time.
It’s always waiting, between and
always ages, but we trust days

to follow days, and time to roll
forward, gigantic, ahead of us
like a cannon through a wall, to
the next day, the hour, the midnight
when we can begin waiting again.

Like trying to catch a tree getting taller
it never moves when we’re looking at it
and we distract ourselves with the leaves
and the circling hands and the boxes
of numbered days until this, and then until.

 

[Tzara]

08

Doodle

What do I find so fascinating
About Onegin Stanza form?
The rhythm—it is scintillating,
Quite outside poetic norm.
Its lines are short and tempermental,
A heady test of poet's mettle.
No boring old pentameter
In the Onegin verse. No, sir!
Some poets find it makes them queasy
To switch from masc- to feminine
And swing both ways with certain ends,
But I like that and find it easy.
I hope next year's Survivor game
Retains this form, that some find lame.



Slapped together to stay ahead of Bijou, who snuck up on me with a bunch of poems.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-8

i'm in ur tubes
sneakin up on u lol.


***



It was said of Bandhe
that she perfected the inner heat
that she untied every knot within her
that she became unobstructed.

What is it to be a diamond body
to be tangible within those subtle motions
the drops and veins, the lines from crown
to every fingertip, to be flawless?

Is it this pure rage, this one-footed dance
I now do in helplessness, no longer
self-referenced, standing simply
on your beautiful body, thirsty
for the contents of your skull?

Bandhe drank wine, perfected the dance
of the diamond among the dead.
She knew the course of breath left sleep
for the levitating flame, rose
above the lake when no one was watching.

Do not look now, as I reject my own heart
in favor of your mouth, and charge
myself with red until my skin heats
to fire. Have pity on the skeleton
as underneath the skulls and rags
the adamantine of my hunger
rises, solitary, outside your world.


.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-9

boy


pale sparks sharp on his cheek
that subtle shade of petal pure
and boyish as he turns to sweet
and sleeps without the usual heavy breath
just light under the fingertip of my design.

I use the voice that sings, that says
his tender names, and how carefully
I move, to leave in peace
this delicate descent
more mother than a mother
and more virgin as he sweeps
himself all clean of any sins
baptized by my harsh hand
and all done singing

nothing left but breath and rush
heavy as a rose, in smooth bright mouth
in simple lines of cheek and lash
a ring, a halo round his brightened skin
cool as stars now, lengthened into limbs
and nothing more complex than
startled, sated skin.


.

 

[Tzara]

09

i'm in ur tubes
sneakin up on u lol.

Engagé

Delightfully poetic writing
Has Bijou left for us today.
Her challenge, though, seems quite inciting—
It's forcing me to work away
On two more poems, so I'm still leading
This non-race through which I'm now speeding
Toward the magic thirty mark,
The goad her lolcats-phrased remark
"I'm in ur tubes." Quite algebraic,
Almost, that. I think. Perhaps,
What with my age and frequent naps,
She merely means my tube's archaic?
It's vaguely smutty, anyway.
(Now just one poem to write today.)



.

 

[Tzara]

10

Master's Bad Day

Your intellect is very sexy
(Though that skin sheath works well too).
My libido is quite flexi-
Ble, I guess. For it's adduced
That you are your own antinomy:
Smart, but slutty, not a phony,
Except when you want to be
A guttersnipe, enslaved by me.

Phew! Poèm writing is exhausting.
I think I'll take a break from it
And play with leather thongs and hit
Your backside, for you are accosting
Me for punishment. I swear
Some days you make me pull my hair.



.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Holiday Hubris

I will remember
this year I will remember
to send you a card even though
cards I'm no good at. Even though
I let my threads hang loose ended,
geese strung at market, I'll sew
lashes on the dolly and send it
finally send it overposted with last year's stamps.
I will send you the Kenzo you'll hate at first
but grow to love, to replace your cheap
Victoria's Secret because you'll notice
how it smells the next morning
on the chemise that I'll send too
which you will love instantly and wear
that same night, maybe again on New Year's
if it's not too wrinkled. Yes I know you. This year
I will remember too.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-10

Tizzara, I'm racing only with myself, but sure, let's play. I mean. I started on the fourth. I should be at eleven already, and who knows what will happen over Santamas. I may get behind again, or be attacked by ennui. Best to be caught up.

But sure, you brilliance, let's go.

And Dora! That's just lovely! It made me want to go shopping for lingerie. But then, everything does...


***


Losing Lovers

What he served was vampire coffee in a cup made
from bone, from his own skull. I did not realize it
at the time and I didn’t count him because I knew
already that he would die. The other three
were a surprise, untimely.

Why do we use that word,
untimely, only followed by death? Nothing else is untimely,
apparently, and death is always exactly on time
at least in its own point of view. It serves
the cup of heat from a fattened hand
sated, but not enough, since more are born
and escape it now, more than those who make it
back through that dark door. Our numbers
are increasing despite its best efforts
but it has made a thorough count of me
this year.

Death has a heavy hand now, a face
rounded by luxury, having eaten
those I touched, having attained
some of my own breath, my own skin.



.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-11

Street Musician

I took his seat by mistake, thinking the guitar case
was someone else’s. When he came back, he said,
it’s alright, you can sit there. I recognized him
from years ago, when, on a porch outside a club
he played an air guitar for me, played Hendrix
perfectly, invisible. I asked for Little Wing
and I could hear it. Flawless.

I told him I was sorry for taking his seat.
He ignored me. He said, you’re writing. Are you
a poet, or a journalist? I said, I am not
a journalist. I will not say I am a poet because
I refuse to define poetry.

He said, put your hand here. And he put his hand
over his heart, open. Alright. I put my hand
over my heart. He said, can you feel
the beat? Can you feel your heart
beating? In fact, despite the noise, despite
everything around, I could. I said yes.
Then you’re a poet, he said.


.

 

[Tzara]

Tizzara, I'm racing only with myself, but sure, let's play. I mean. I started on the fourth. I should be at eleven already, and who knows what will happen over Santamas. I may get behind again, or be attacked by ennui. Best to be caught up.

I did say "non-race," m'dear.

And welcome to the thread, PG. Nice start.

 

[Tzara]

11

Self-Explanatory

I have no poèm for today.
That's how it is. My writing's flat,
Unblessed by cleverness or fey
I have no poèm for today
False irony to howl and bay
And froth up something like éclat.
I have no poèm for today—
That's how it is, when writing's flat.



.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I did say "non-race," m'dear.

And welcome to the thread, PG. Nice start.

You did, indeed. Good thing too, cause I'm just not competitive like that. I'd freeze up like Omaha. It was all just talk, like usual.

Though this is helping, lately. I hate to admit it but I do a little better with some pressure.

Maybe that'll give you a poem or two, for that matter.

 

[champagne1982]

LOL My 30 is going to take something more like 90...

press here and I'll show you
the shell pink glow of inner
labia growing brighter
as blood flushes vessels
swelling, pressurized
in heated joy that your kiss
warms when pressed lovingly
against their pliant edges.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Champy NOM! You just take as long as you like, particularly if you're going to turn in sexy lil things like that.

I'm having major computer frustration. The laptop onto which I typed today's two pieces is refusing to get on line, and honestly I'm just too damn lazy and stubborn to retype them. So I guess I'll just be behind again, until the geek can come in and kill a chicken or whatever strange voodoo needs to be done to make the beast work.

It's funny how we anthropomorphize things. There is part of me that's hoping that my laptop is sitting over there feeling bad about misbehaving. Like I could say to it, Look, see what you did? You made me fall behind on the 30 thread again, and it's all your fault. And it would put its little power cord between its legs and whimper contritely, or something.

Perhaps that's a bit of a poem anyway... but I won't count it.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-12

I must learn from you
the semiotics of any
tender muscle of the face.
I have ceased
to resist it. One twist
of lip, one eyebrow,
one slight shift
the meaning of which
I am to deduce. I am
not fine tuned, as you
need me.


.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-13

They said of the Dakini that she wore a red
dress and went barefoot, saying that
her feet were clad with holy earth.
She climbed up on the Buddha like a tree,
climbed on a mountain
and waited for twelve years, standing
on one foot, next to the fire.

If you approach wrongly, with the right hand
the gathering will disperse. Remember this
next time you see them, flocked like
rattling crows, next time you think you are
alone between trees. Move cautiously
remember where you are, and assume
that all these faces are masks, hiding Tara.

He met a woman whose face was deep green
whose arms held several lotuses, held weapons,
threatened him away when he tried to approach.
Enough, enraged, never cool, not singing,
and aloud she finds it pure impatience
to speak. He did not leave. He refused
and instead sat firmly nearby, waiting.

She is smoke on the surface of window, of lake
She is the wave of panic at dark, at nothing
She holds hands out to him but he is afraid
thinking she must mean it, not mean it.
She is myrtle, the white thorn edges
He can make nothing of her, cannot fold her
into a shape, cannot save himself with her.

He finds her peering at an empty piece of earth
looking at the dust, closely, as if surprised. She
did not explain. She never explained. She
waited until he spoke and startled,
cried out as if she had been dreaming.
Now I’ve forgotten, she said, but don’t worry
I’ll remember again, when it’s time.



.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-14

I have gone back
to the stories I told myself
before I was leather. I have gone
back to the temple, to the paired thighs
entwined, enthroned, the brass
impaled, and the fountains, and the bright
simplicity of service to a king, to a queen.

Like a dream, like a cracked egg,
it trickles through the waking day
ruining the surfaces
making every conversation echo strangely
the way the day seems unreal
after a night of nightmares.


.

 

[Tzara]

12

Inadequacy

There is nothing to seek here other than tics
And anxiety. My flesh suffers a temblor,
Subterranean, when I talk to you, my words

Just waves into open air. So rate me six
On some scale of ten, or twenty. I don't score
Well, nor do I ever, ever, satisfy your itch.



.

 

[champagne1982]

wake up with restless flex
to stretch unwilling fibrous
tear and sigh in wakened
torment yet twisting
fire inside the parted hurt

beg white-coated masters
for a taste of orpheus balm
not opium but some synthetic
chemistry for wounds
that scar but do not bleed

 

[Tzara]

13

Realdramatik

At some point, you sucked in fame like air—
craved it, needed it to inflate your lungs
the way an asthmatic needs an inhaler
to crawl to the phone and dial 911.

Don't let me stop you from being famous.
Die if you want. There are always other women
with other, lemony, kinks. Other drugs. Other
traps to lure, secure me in their hunt.



.

 

[Tzara]

14

Temperance, Inverted

We haven't been ourselves. I want
Popcorn and old movies, monster things
That threaten Earthly life, the kind
Of ordinary chaff that litters us
With questions, research, ways in which
I would carefully flip through cards
If there were cards, for some key
To pull me out of this. This lack of you.

But, there are no cards. Not anymore. Just
Pixels that I touch. And touch. I drink,
You drink, we drink: distant. Somewhere
Now that we now all live now. Now.



.

 

[Tzara]

15

Throwing Away Your Youth

is just boxing up old books:
bestsellers that you've never read,
self-help tomes that didn't help,
dog-eared, yellow, physics texts
that never were quite understood.

Your mother's favorite novelist,
who isn't yours. Phone books
and Yellow Pages only used
as doorstops. All those volumes you
hope your wife yet never finds.
(Or finds inspiring, betimes.)

Someone, someplace grinds this up.
So what's your problem, buttercup?



.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

x-15

golly gee, everyone is so cheerful around the holidays!

I do hope everyone's National Consumption Holiday, or Santamas, or whatever you celebrate, is being beautiful, or at least tolerable. Mine's pretty excellent, so far.

And prolific, in its own special way...

***

Damascus, you bastard,
you folded and wired steel
now hardened beyond change, you find
your own hands bound by fragile crimes
that turn and build on themselves like
a knotted serpent, unspiral, tangle
that fascinates with fangs. I can’t
trust you, trust you to love for any longer
than the song plays, for any longer
than your breath lasts, the word, the sentence
and how you pronounce it again, yet again
in condemnation of those stupid sins,
the only ones of which I am not guilty.