Dirty 30 in 30

[unpredictablebijou]

Award for Title of the Week goes to Tz.

made me giggle.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Sixteen

This was a stupid poem so I took it down but I did write one.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Seventeen

. . . . .

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Eighteen

. . . . .

 

[PandoraGlitters]

nineteen

. . . . .

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Twenty

Of course it was you
who brought me back
feeding seeds between my lips
and pressing hand
breath breath hand
until I rose

crawling elbow to knee through earth
veins to the early break
through like Faria into a prison
I have named brick by brick

call me bitch if you must but just
don't neglect to write

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Twenty one

Clarins makes a serum for 100 USD
That'll rid you of your wrinkles, grow new limbs on amputees,
(oh I promise it's a bargain, even at ten times the cost).
You won't find the years you squandered or regain the love you lost
but you can look quite contented even if inside you ain't.
Don't you worry none about those cracks, love. That's why god made paint.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Award for Title of the Week goes to Tz.

made me giggle.

He's a clever one, to be sure.

(I elected to take down my last few because they were poo. Now I'm just going to try to have fun for awhile and then maybe try to write a couple of decent ones if I can muster them.)

 

[Tzara]

06: Trying to explain something. Doing it badly.

Civil Engineering

A photograph cannot be read as diary.
Nor can a poem—a poem is rock,
crushed and piled and spread
for some engineer to construct a roadway on.

What I've built sometimes is built for you,
though your soft, bare soles
will never trod upon that asphalt. I'd love
to take you for a ride along its seaside curves,
watch your hair flow in that quickened wind
as I shifted straight from first to third
in some sleek and open cabriolet. I want

to listen to you laugh, to shriek, to purr.
I want to watch your eyes in firelight,
camped on some headland over surf. I want

so many things I cannot want. So I build roads.


.

 

[Tzara]

07: Back to my usual shtick, unfortunately

Villanelle, Dealt from Random Index Cards
Individually Written on in Pencil,
Like Some Broken, Ersatz Nabokov

My fingernails have not been cut today.
This planet is unstable. Quite infirm.
A serifed font's more readable, OK?

There always has to be a better way.
Need life insurance? Best you purchase term.
My fingernails have not been cut today.

I've eaten curds; I've never eaten whey.
In college, I dissected a large worm.
A serifed font's more readable, OK?

My laptop's dead—I think it's the display.
Most males ejaculate one teaspoon sperm.
My fingernails have not been cut today.

I'm solid antiperspirants, not spray.
Somatic protoplasm is not germ.
A serifed font's more readable, OK?

The radio is busted, by the way.
Small children can't sit still. They always squirm.
My fingernails have not been cut today.
A serifed font's more readable, OK?


.

 

[Tzara]

08

Practical Cheiromancy

Don't bother me with cards. I can't
even see the present clearly
with them, or the past. And
anything tomorrow's simply fog.

What I will take is your hand.
In the delta of that flesh
banked high along the heel of your palm,
seven lines like rivers cross the skin:
Heart, Fate, Head, Life;
Venus, Mercury, and Sun.

My right hand takes your left, and thus
divination is begun.

The hand is cold, the muscles firm,
but supple. Fingers shapely, slim, and long.
I trace your Fate, then cross
back long along your Heart. My voice,
as I begin to speak, is low and sibilant,
a susurrus, a chant. I talk and talk

and talk some automatic way,
still meandering about the thin
caldera of your hand. I talk.

But what I know is not topography, not
lines and shapes and intersections.

Touch. That's all I really know. Just touch.


.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Breathtaking poems, Tz. You are the king of titles, too.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

twenty two

Lighthouse

there are as many ways of feeling
your touch as there are
sounds of water against rocks
or through sand

so many songs to call
us to what we need
that we build lighthouses

so lace warns your finger
shadows the meditative
brush of your wrist in case
you didn't hear the play
of air at my lips

 

[PandoraGlitters]

twenty three

Heather

I loved my neighbor's dolly more
than I loved her until she brought
me to her room and played Aristo-
cats for me and waltzed me 'round.

How grand our sundresses became.
Palm to palm, we twirled them out,
she in gold and I in blue,
careful footed not to scratch

the vinyl. On the chair beside
the phonograph I placed the sleeve
where daddy sat to tuck her in.
She moved it, wordlessly.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

twenty four

come on down and bring
your guitar your thick socks
there's a moon out a fire
and a dry stump

we become owls presiding
over night fields crackling
wind in last year's corn husks
frightening the mice

bring your moon
shine jar and a hot harmonica
to the pinnacles park
and its mournful echoes

guiding us back through spruce
to the soft pine bed
and well rigged tent
through darkness

 

[Tzara]

Breathtaking poems, Tz.

I write anaerobic poems?

 

[Tzara]

09: Written for chipbutty's challenge & repurposed.

2/46

On blueprints drafted before birth
Are bodies modeled. God erects
A framework built of bones and breath,
Then flips a coin to fix the sex.

If that sounds arbitrary, well,
It is. In almost all respects
We differ mainly in our Will—
Not dangly bits found below decks.

But vive la différence, dear God,
For blessing concave with convex
As complement. Your greatest Good
Glues intimate to intersects.


.

 

[Tzara]

10: Ditto.

Best Picture

James Cameron drew up the Na'vi
From blueprints drafted before birth
With expertise, computer savvy,
A ball of loot big as the Earth.
In 3D, Jimmy's film's amazing,
At his Pandora we're star-gazing
Enthralled by luscious technical
Screen wizardry that's epochal.
But here's the twist—the Oscars mostly
Bypassed Jim's expensive flick
In favor of one by some chick
Who's his ex-wife—one much less costly.
And so, this headline (though it's mean):
King of the World trumped by Ex-Queen.


.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I write anaerobic poems?

Just poems that sometimes make me forget to breathe as in the case of Practical Chieromancy. I really liked the balance you struck, there.

 

[Tzara]

11

Just poems that sometimes make me forget to breathe. . .

The Ballad of Oxidation
for my favorite receptive ion

You're not the flame itself, but what
....Allows the flame to be.
I am Magnesium. My dust
....Ground fine unites with thee.

Sweet Oxygen! Divalent You
....Go double-down on me
When spark or flame conjoin us two
....In compound harmony!




I'm just joshing with you, Sweetness. Thank you for your flattering comment.

Yours tend to make me even more inarticulate than usual.

 

[sassynyc]

The Ballad of Oxidation
for my favorite receptive ion

You're not the flame itself, but what
....Allows the flame to be.
I am Magnesium. My dust
....Ground fine unites with thee.

Sweet Oxygen! Divalent You
....Go double-down on me
When spark or flame conjoin us two
....In compound harmony!




I'm just joshing with you, Sweetness. Thank you for your flattering comment.

Yours tend to make me even more inarticulate than usual.

Anaerobic.....yes, this certainly qualifies. I feel like I walked in on something I shouldn't have. Carry on...just wanted to say, I like this "an uber bunch", to quote a beloved friend.

Dora, #24...yowza! Makes me think of the blues, and old men whittling figurines out of soft wood. They're sitting on a porch watching the sun slip behind a corn field and sipping mint julips. I actually remembered the sweet smell of hay wafting on warm breezes, when I was a kid visiting my grandparents in the country. I haven't thought about that in ages.
That's some good imagery, girl!

 

[Tzara]

12

Aw, hell. Just go here.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

twenty five

Tz, that was a hot little ditty, thanks! Sassy you are too kind but I was feeling folksy and wistful for camping and nature. Too much pavement for Spring that day.

pineapple on a metal cart
is a lucky morning
a Hawaii morning
a date with a masseur
a day poured with polish

which is to say
a little stickier
but sweeter

don't care who watches
as I lick it from
my fingers

 

[reneemyrenee]

wtf and omg and I am going to cry

I try to read directions
and I try to follow along
but when I make my postings
I can never find them here
HELP ME

 

[reneemyrenee]

RE: 30 in 30

I hesitate because words leave me just as I hope to collect and assemble them
What I feel in my moments of hesitation is like a burp that aches to come up and out and bring relief to my soul.
I hear those very words grumble through my innards, so can everyone else hear, but no one feels them passing through with great emoting on the inside of me,
but me.

I do.

Then do they escape me or assemble?
I hate to see something starting in me, Demanding to be released, Requiring to be positioned and assembled and then when that great feat has been accomplished........ After all the suffering those leaving words gave me........I abandon them. So that when, if , I go back to please myself in them.... I do not recognize them as mine.
I say, I wrote that? OMG
and I hate punctuation. I must find my writers license?

that was number ONE

did I introduce my self on this thread?
Renee Holly
haven't written a poem since I was or well in 30 years.
"I'll Be Back"