Dirty 30 in 30

[PandoraGlitters]

24

. . . . .

 

[PandoraGlitters]

25

. . . . .

 

[champagne1982]

June 1

Pussy Hud

A little decline in aesthetics
bought an image of shirred pink
against a background of fuscia
with a cherry on top

But no cherry this

Animate my pussy and pleasure
froths forth in instant
arousal and gratification
with the push of a button

Life was never so easy
______________________
Pussy Hud (June 11 edit)

My recent decline in aesthetics
and sense has bought me pixels
of shirred pink against a background
of naked taupe with a cherry on top.

But no cherry this--

Animate my pussy with the push
of a button to see virtual pleasure
froth forth in instant bytes
of arousal and cyber-gratification.

Life was never so easy.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Good edit, Champagne.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

26

. . . . .

 

[champagne1982]

Good edit, Champagne.

Thank you, Dora. I love the alliterative "p" and the assonance of "th" and "ush". You'll have to visit me in my little house and see my graphic illustration of feminine hygiene products.. I orgasm in "Daisy Fresh" Summer's Eve®...

 

[champagne1982]

First Kiss June 2

poop, double post.

 

[champagne1982]

First Kiss June 2

First Kiss

Anticipate the touch of lips
in open wonder,
the quest of tongue
delving deep,
the momentary clash of teeth
adjusting to this taste.

Don't request a cooling of ardour
felt too strongly,
a summons of restraint
in behaviour,
a quick denial of credulity
that infatuation can become love.

Enjoy the lust that creates
fast arousal,
the passion that strengthens
immediate response,
the permission that intensifies
pleasured release of everything.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

27

. . . . .

 

[champagne1982]

Preferred

Oh, I think one of my first real piss-ups was sharing a bottle of lemon gin with my best friend.. lol, we held each other's hair back that night. True to both our words, "never again".

I see all that luscious green in S2 and I can smell apples and taste a Granny Smith. Not a bad image to take away from your tasty poem.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Thanks, Champ. I am a real gin fan but was inspired by Lubricant's wonderful poem over on 007. Folks should check him out if they haven't already.

I prefer gins that have notable botanicals because I like dirty martinis. I never had the 'sick on gin' experience that so many have. My teenage hair-holding drink was Jack Daniels. *shudder*

 

[PandoraGlitters]

28

Stages of Ethnicity
(response to Banks)

one is a bomb
hiding from the sun

two is a Kansas evangelist
taping as his followers picket
Laurent's funeral

three is the word taken back
like nigger or dyke or bitch
into the mouth with wry lovehate
turning it around on itself like a tongue
tied cherry

four is a bridge on two sides of a river
an unpatrolled border

five is a well packed bag
light of things one can cheaply acquire
ease at the botellón

six is friends in all time zones
a seat at the TED Conference
multilingual Unitarian who plays
bagpipes and sitar
who can come anytime on frequent
flyer miles

 

[PandoraGlitters]

29

for Susan

As she begins her descent
into death I will bring her
God's pussy or something
close. I will watch her
hold her grandchildren

and all this will be novel but not
watching her meaningfully
breathe. She never took
air for granted.

 

[sweepthefloor]

1

*this is supposed to be prose, so here it goes: I know it is kinda rough.

You are fatherless, and I am motherless. You borrow my Dad, but I don’t want your mother. I am not sure why you still feel the need to compete with me. I will never have a dick like you, and I accept that happily. I gave up a long time ago, you just never noticed.

It is still fun for you after all these years, so I amuse you, childish boy. I will still race you on dirt bikes, skip rocks, and split wood with you, and fake excitement. Just know that the only wood I ever wanted to split is the one between your legs. That was till I watched you grow from a boy into a pathetic thing.

Now you climb up my scaffold, that we built together, and you rock it, trying to frighten me. Do you even know that under these jeans I have on sexy panties? Do you even see the pink ribbons that lace my boots? Just shut the fuck up about your girlfriend, and hand me the quarter inch nut driver.

I loved you so much, and I wanted to be you. When my breasts started to grow, I put Band-Aids over my nipples, trying desperately to heal myself of this wretched phenomenon taking over my body. When that did not work, I used an ace bandage, and it hurt.

When you find out about porn magazines, you show me the hidden treasure. We flip through the pages, and after that, I ace wrap no more. I throw all the bandages in the trash. I stand in front of the mirror, naked. I am the girl in the dirty magazine.

Your girl comes around in clicky little sandals, and pressed dresses. She smiles, and then fights with you over stupid things. You seem not to care, as long as she makes out with you later. I sit on my porch and watch this touching ritual. I don’t get it, and I think I might be dumb. I can’t see what you see, but she does smell good, so I sniff her every time she walks by me.

I am on my knees, on the dusty floor, in front of the chop-saw. The smell of burnt metal fills my brain, and hurts my lungs. The sparks litter the floor and burn out, around your boots. I have tits and a nice ass, my shirt is tight and it is soaked with wet. For once, you do not talk about the skirt you are currently chasing.

My face is flush, from the heat, from the work. I set up to grind off the rough edges, still hot from the cut, wanting to smooth out my own edge, but I can’t. You stand behind me, and try to take the piece of metal from me, lightly rubbing my ass with your newly discovered excitement for me. Now, I fucking hate you. The only useful thing you have is sperm, and why would I want to make more weak and fragile men like you? No thanks; I will wait for a better specimen.

 

[sweepthefloor]

2

Your eyes are 360 joules
Your face is a lifPAK
Your hands are the paddles

Lather on the conduction gel
Hands on chest hard
Mouth between the nipple line

Full charge, clear, defibrillate.
Get back on the chest
Deliver the joules.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

30

One Wednesday born on the factory floor
of Rosie the Riveter's daughter,
I made her carry my weight and more
but still could hear her laughter

through the rumble of her bones.
Through cattle fields and marriages,
she laughed. The joy she felt atoned
for stoned and broken genius.

In prison she made paint from food--
from commissary candy.
She mixed it with her body fluids,
with packages of honey

with what she could to paint for me
in letters that she sent me
apologizing for her crime--
for using good and plenty.

Rosie the Riveter made the planes
that flew over the prison
and carried the art her daughter made
to her granddaughter in Brooklyn.

 

[sweepthefloor]

3-Gold Dust and Jelly Jars

Gold Dust and Jelly Jars


You are painting letters on a wall, the man on the ground is your boss and he comes up to help for fun or stays on the ground sending up your supplies: paint, brushes, rags, lots of paint thinner, and your lunch up in the bucket that is tied to a rope that is pull-ied to your scaffold. As long as you and your partner snap a level chalk line off the building for your pattern placement, everything is peachy. Nothing worse than finishing any job and wondering, does that look crooked? You pull out your tape measure from your back pocket and find out that indeed you are 1/4 of an inch off the mark, you get yelled at for not measuring twice and cutting once as they say; all cause you thought you had a good eye; and then you wonder why you developed obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and that you no longer draw a straight line with your hand by running your grease pencil on your mark while holding your middle finger down the side of the board for the length of the board in one big sweep.

Large gold leaf jobs sparkle in the shop with flakes of gold like glittering dust particles shimmering in one or two rays of sun that creep through the bay door into the darkness, and you inhale it into your lungs, but it does not hurt like the dust from the dirt floor basement where spiders live and rats rule. When you stop to pee, fill up your bucket from the hose to flush the toilet. You see yourself in the mirror by accident. For one second you alarm yourself cause you think you might be pretty for a minute; the flakes of gold leaf dust freckle your face and there is a piece on the lip and some on your eyelashes. The brief flash of prettiness is not repeated when you goof off and gold leaf your whole face in front of the shop bathroom mirror wasting approximately 3 precious sheets. You stand in front of him, startling him ripping a board on the table saw. You go back to the mirror and inspect every gold filled tiny pore, and you see a golden robot from some cheap science fiction novel, wash your face, giggle silently in your belly cause there is no-one else to laugh with except for him ripping the board and he almost took his fingers off with the board when you frightened him with your golden face. He bitches you out, and you go back to work. The board cutter is your shop mate, the master cabinetmaker, self-proclaimed artist of veneer work, and leader of his own circus riot. He likes spreading dust around with his air hose when you are about to put the final coat of paint on a board. Your jobs are always in his space and his saw dust is always in your paint, but he pays half the rent and amuses your mornings over coffee and sweeps the shop floor with comments like: I went to the city last night, and had to park my car up my ass cause there was no parking anywhere. Or he says, where the fuck is my rubber mallet? Is it up your fucking ass again? And his tools are always organized unlike your own un-controlled chaos so in a moment of desperation you can borrow his quarter inch nut driver when he is not around. There is something about quarter inch nut drivers and tape measures that no matter how many you purchase from the hardware store: you never have enough. I dream about buckets filled with quarter inch nut drivers, and self-centering tape measures. Where is the wrench for the router bit change? I have this high speed steel round over bit in the hand held router and I want to use my new half inch shank carbide tip bit with the roller bearing pilot that will not leave burn marks in my piece like the steel bit guide nubs do. I am in the shop, as if the sound of any power tool sets off an alarm inside his brain distracting him from any task in the office, even if it is all planned out, done a thousand times before, the same verbiage: two hands on the router, screaming, how many times does he have to tell me to braid that hair before coming to work? Where are your safety glasses screaming over the machines high pitched whine as it cuts into a thin sheet of aluminum on the panel saw with squinting eyes feeding it into the teeth as the blade spits out shiny metal flecks everywhere cause I never hooked up the vacuum. The chop saw, the panel saw, the jig saw, the chain saw, the forbidden for years table saw, the grinder, the cordless drill, the drill press, the basic hammer, each with their own special words repeated for years and years to the point of memorization burned in my brain that I can not pick up one single man made tool without hearing his voice verbatim. And tools are fed to me like an infant that gets a new food after tolerating the last new food in blocks of time on a carefully planned out calendar. Jobs are doled out based on the mastery of tools and each one becomes an extension of my body. And the dreaded table saw is the last to be introduced like meat to a baby. How I got my hands on a chain saw before a table saw is beyond my understanding, but he knows best. There is something about a sheet of wood being cut on a table saw that draws your hand to the blade like butter, and if you are thinking of something other than the blade and your fingers, you might get sucked in. So today is the day I will rip up some boards on the table saw under close supervision, it is the big moment, the graduation, I am shop debutante, my coming of maturity. I feel guilty inside. I stole something from him, and I just realize it now when I see shop mate rolling on the floor laughing in his self made saw dust pile that the cat probably poops in. I have been ripping boards for years on the table saw when he was not around, and shop mate knows this well. Time goes by with me passing each lesson perfectly and then I tell the truth, I cannot go on with this act: I already know how. He looks hurt for what I think to be a second at the most, then I think I am going to get screamed at, then he hooks his arm around my neck and gives a big squeeze and a crooked toothed grin. I do not pass out, I smell malt and smoke and wood chips.

It is cold. It is winter. In the falling apart building with cheap rent there is no heat. The dog’s water bowls are filled with frozen water from yesterday. Every cabinetmaker in the city drops off buckets of scrap wood for kindling. We burn newspapers, desks, chairs, and phone books in our wood burners. Nothing better than wrecking some furniture into small pieces, to burn and get warm, sure saves the floorboards. Somebody unloads a full cord of wood at our bay door that spills into the city street. I stand the logs up, split them down and stack them up in one day: I have a stack of cedar that is 8 x4×4 feet. I am not cold in my Carhartt coveralls, that he tenderly calls my zoot suit. The icy wind bites my face, but my chest is on fire, I unzip. My fingers are frozen but my core is melting with every swing of the splitting maul (you do not split wood with an axe, contrary to popular belief). A splitting maul is like an axe but much heavier, and one side works like a sledgehammer to drive your iron wedge into the wood that you want to split. Cedar keeps me warm and it makes the shop dogs sleepy.

In the summer I pull off twenty ticks a day from each shop dog times three dogs. The ticks are small and undetectable and then they swell with blood, it bothers me probably more than it does the dogs. I just go crazy seeing those parasites with their shiny tan membranes swelling with the life juice of the dogs. I pick them off and put them in tiny empty jelly jars. I number each jar and keep a log of each jar; masking tape labels the date and how big the tick is. My plan is to see how long a tick can live without a host because even if they look dead, when you take them out of the jars they appear to be living again. Everyone knows you can only kill a tick by burning it to death with matches: I am going to find out for sure. Shop mate finds the jars and demands to know what the fuck I am doing (his words). I reply with due force that it is my experiment, and he rants off that I am a fucking freak. I might be a freak, but he still wants to fuck me, I know he does. I look at the jelly jars with dead ticks, and wonder if I put two ticks in one jar: will they eat each other? I debate throwing away the jelly jars cause shop mates voice alarms me. (as if I am doing something horrid) I keep them for another 42 days, and they shrivel up to their normal size, all the blood has dried up: seems to evaporate. I throw them in the garbage and wash my hands with this orange scrub, in the icy cold sink water. I do not see any prettiness in the mirror for even a second. Who will ever want to fuck this red blotchy face with acne? I make 2 thick braids and stick my tongue out at myself. I lick my crooked teeth and admire my tits in my tight soft cotton tee shirt, worn inside out on purpose so the seams don’t rub me. I go back to work.

In the morning I have my coffee, sweep my half of the shop only, because he hurt my feelings. I am drawing the emotional line in the sawdust, and he knows it. Shop mate tells me he wanted the empty jelly jars for his finishing nails. I understand this as an apology for being mean.

I set up to gold leaf a large project, to feel like an ancient beauty queen, breathe in gold dust; here I do not have to open my mouth for words, or look up at anything other than shimmering gold flakes, that shine in the sunrays that sneak into my dungeon through a steel gated bay door.

 

[sweepthefloor]

4

s4
ta lubb dub
A stiff wall
Does not mean
Ischemic myocardium
Or a non-compliant ventricle
ta lubb
My mouth on the down stroke
dubb
The quick upstroke

 

[sweepthefloor]

5-Not Equal

All love is inherently unequal
One always loves the other more
Tip the love-o-meter
In favor of me loving the most
For once
My pleasure is loving you
Not how much you love me

(just tell me once)
And I am yours.

 

[champagne1982]

Gold Dust and Jelly Jars

This is writing to do a thirsty mind good. Thank you.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I agree, Sweep. Rich writing and interesting themes. It's a pleasure to read.

 

[champagne1982]

s4
ta lubb dub
A stiff wall
Does not mean
Ischemic myocardium
Or a non-compliant ventricle
ta lubb
My mouth on the down stroke
dubb
The quick upstroke

I had another read of this poem. Keep your blood pressure in control. I'm in the same boat. Good luck.

 

[champagne1982]

One Wednesday born on the factory floor.

Had a thought about this poem, Dora. You were looking for a title I seem to recall.
I'm taking an idea from here...

In prison she made paint from food--
from commissary candy.
She mixed it with her body fluids,
with packages of honey

How about, Candy Hued ?

 

[sweepthefloor]

Thanks for the positive encouragement Champ and Pandora! I will get the 30 done before 30...Just a bit irregular. I like reading both of you too.

 

[sweepthefloor]

6- The Bedouin

Pressed white gowns on men wearing
Sandals all dressed the same.
Perceives a most serious nature
Big brown eyes, lit by long dark lashes

He laden my ankles with gold
That jingle and sparkle in the big sun
And serves me black
Turkish coffee, in small cups

We could mix up the gene pool
My green eyes on rough hands
As we drink goats milk
And get high under the starry sky

Oh! Take back the bondage gold
I cannot stay here with you
In the tent, on your mat
At your well walked feet

You set me free packing
Unscathed by said brutality
I got a sack of gold, memories
And Bedouin hospitality.