new poems

[Tathagata]

Re: Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

It's simply simple poetry and simply thank you as eloquently as possible.

you seem to be simple minded today......

 

[WickedEve]

Re: Re: Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

you seem to be simple minded today......

am not

 

[Tathagata]

Re: Re: Re: Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

am not

nice come back

 

[Syndra Lynn]

Re: Re: Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

you seem to be simple minded today......

No. She is simply beautiful today. Go play on another thread, Tath. Unless you wanted to recommend poems?

Syn

 

[Tathagata]

Re: Re: Re: Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

No. She is simply beautiful today. Go play on another thread, Tath. Unless you wanted to recommend poems?

Syn

ok

 

[tungtied2u]

Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

Originally posted by Syndra Lynn The incest of Brotherly Love is handled well by one of our BEST new poets, tungtied2u.

[

_____________________________________

Thank you Syn. The check's in the mail

 

[tarablackwood22]

Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

tarablackwood22 wrote the story of my life in the most erotic wonderful poem she has blessed us with thus far. vanilla weary is hot, sexy, pornographic poetry at its very fucking best!

I got so excited I posted my comment twice!


Syndra

Thanks, Syn.....I definately had you in mind!

I hear your walls rattling constantly....it keeps me awake at night!!

Silent Midnight .....something to think about.

 

[JCSTREET]

I'm staggered

QUOTE:

propelled against walls
like an accident,
slammed on porcelain
like steak,
open V-wide and glistening
begging
on cold floors.

QUOTE

just a few weeks ago Tara paid compliments to my poetry yet seemed somehow hesitant about her own

now I just sit--mouth slackly agape--drooling down the side of my chin as though I've had a stroke or been made decerebrate by a basement lobotomy with an ice-pick

I guess because I lived part of my life out on the Jacksboro Pike--or down in the Odessa honky tonks playing whorehouse boogie--it all runs in my mind like a movie instead of me seeing it objectively.

what amazes me is the speed with which Tara's poetic juggernaut (from a small dot on the horizon) has swept right out of the iMAX screen demonically--to capture and possess.

it's unprofitable to play favorites here because so many ppl in this group can surprise and delight at the drop of a .... uh.....whatever's appropriate to drop at any particular time

so I'm not - just commenting on this one phenomenon (or as they say at the red neck restaurant--one phenomena(sic)

I see honors in this young woman's future

Carl

PS - tks everyone for recent comments on LUNA and for a social worker--but don't cry for me Argentina - she only dumped me because I wqas too active on the side--and that was way back in 1973 anyway

the downside is that she married an accountant (bad enough on its own but he was also English--which really cut me lol)

 

[jthserra]

thank you champagne...

for your kind words about The Salty Sweet. I thought I'd try life as an insect in that poem. The picture is the pistil of an hibiscus flower taken on my ancient Konica digital camera. It has a macro lens that lets you do those super close-ups.


thanks again,

jim : )

 

[Guest]

Re: thank you champagne...

for your kind words about The Salty Sweet. I thought I'd try life as an insect in that poem. The picture is the pistil of an hibiscus flower taken on my ancient Konica digital camera. It has a macro lens that lets you do those super close-ups.


thanks again,

jim : )

eep! I thought it was a honeydew....when, all the while, it was a harmless hibiscus.



Any way - it's lovely.

 

[tarablackwood22]

Re: I'm staggered

QUOTE:

propelled against walls
like an accident,
slammed on porcelain
like steak,
open V-wide and glistening
begging
on cold floors.

QUOTE

just a few weeks ago Tara paid compliments to my poetry yet seemed somehow hesitant about her own

now I just sit--mouth slackly agape--drooling down the side of my chin as though I've had a stroke or been made decerebrate by a basement lobotomy with an ice-pick

I guess because I lived part of my life out on the Jacksboro Pike--or down in the Odessa honky tonks playing whorehouse boogie--it all runs in my mind like a movie instead of me seeing it objectively.

what amazes me is the speed with which Tara's poetic juggernaut (from a small dot on the horizon) has swept right out of the iMAX screen demonically--to capture and possess.

it's unprofitable to play favorites here because so many ppl in this group can surprise and delight at the drop of a .... uh.....whatever's appropriate to drop at any particular time

so I'm not - just commenting on this one phenomenon (or as they say at the red neck restaurant--one phenomena(sic)

I see honors in this young woman's future

So.....tell me what you thought of the poem, Dr. Street.


Silent Midnight -.........something to think about.

 

[Cordelia]

Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

Cordelia is saying an awful lot in her beautiful blues sonnet In not saying. Serious poetry. Seriously wonderful.

Syndra

Thank you, Syndra. I am surprised I got a mention with the slew of great poems today. I often wonder why I even bother to post anything.


And thanks for all the public comments. I am speechless...


Gratefully,


Cordelia


Happy Birthday, Syndra!

 

[Ninja Nookie]

Thank you

Thank you Minsue for you mention my poem.

I am so honored.

 

[Dangerous Liason]

Here's a shameless plug for my ghazal. ... gazelle dust

I just peeked in at it and realized I'd forgot to allow public comment, that's adjusted now. I hope you read and enjoy it.

 

[JCSTREET]

Re: Re: I'm staggered

So.....tell me what you thought of the poem, Dr. Street.


Silent Midnight -.........something to think about.

I like the tension of the passive-aggressive persona

on the one hand she is submissive--wants to be taken, used, beaten, fucked, licked, made wild

on the other hand she is up front, forward, aggressive about what she wants - and she goes out and scores it

nice soupcon of psychopathology as well--removing the ring--bidding goodbye to love, honor and obey and invoking a persona alien to that world

Dr. Law diagnoses a dearth of receptor sites for the good neurotransmitters - so the subject needs large doses of danger or excitement just to feel normal--to increase the serotonin cascades in compensation for the paucity of receptors for them to lock onto

this could be genetic or caused by serious drug abuse early in life

(particularly crystal or coke)

she carries a beast coiled inside--an alterego which Hyde-like erupts after dark and drives its owner to the dark underbelly of the demimonde

this is a classic case in which lack of context leaves a vacuum on the critic's palate.

the poem works without context but the critic wants to know more--wants to examine the etiology of the prodrome

childhood--mother father siblings relatives - just whatwent on back there

the poem is a tour-de-force--the governor is off the big 496 cubic incher with the high lift cams the double valve springs the hemi heads the Holley four-barrel and the eight manifolds which dump right down onto the blacktop

it's liberating - it makes flesh that lust which lurks in all of us--deeper in some than in others and that in most is never realized in full flower

Rx

 

[tarablackwood22]

Re: Re: Re: I'm staggered

I like the tension of the passive-aggressive persona

on the one hand she is submissive--wants to be taken, used, beaten, fucked, licked, made wild

on the other hand she is up front, forward, aggressive about what she wants - and she goes out and scores it

nice soupcon of psychopathology as well--removing the ring--bidding goodbye to love, honor and obey and invoking a persona alien to that world

Dr. Law diagnoses a dearth of receptor sites for the good neurotransmitters - so the subject needs large doses of danger or excitement just to feel normal--to increase the serotonin cascades in compensation for the paucity of receptors for them to lock onto

this could be genetic or caused by serious drug abuse early in life

(particularly crystal or coke)

she carries a beast coiled inside--an alterego which Hyde-like erupts after dark and drives its owner to the dark underbelly of the demimonde

this is a classic case in which lack of context leaves a vacuum on the critic's palate.

the poem works without context but the critic wants to know more--wants to examine the etiology of the prodrome

childhood--mother father siblings relatives - just whatwent on back there

the poem is a tour-de-force--the governor is off the big 496 cubic incher with the high lift cams the double valve springs the hemi heads the Holley four-barrel and the eight manifolds which dump right down onto the blacktop

it's liberating - it makes flesh that lust which lurks in all of us--deeper in some than in others and that in most is never realized in full flower

Rx

JESUS! .....is there anything I can take for it?

Silent Midnight ....something to think about (though it's not as interesting as Dr. Street's diagnosis of my maladies!

 

[RazzRajen]

Re: One day till my Birthday reviews

RazzRajen has New Ways, finally?. It doesn't get much better than this:

Bright Blessings

Syndra

Thanks Syn for the mention and taking the time to do the reviews Wonderful job

Razz

 

[JCSTREET]

Re: Re: Re: Re: I'm staggered

JESUS! .....is there anything I can take for it?

Silent Midnight ....something to think about (though it's not as interesting as Dr. Street's diagnosis of my maladies!

Rx: cock and tongue

 

[tarablackwood22]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: I'm staggered

Rx: cock and tongue

 

[JCSTREET]

I started to do todays reviews in Notepad

and finished part I - a fulsomely long five pages or so

but my cable connect went out just before it took--(I had pressed the get the fuckin thing onto the forum button but nanos too late

so it may have to be tamarra (a mid-Ulster expression)

right now I'm down in the nuclear-hardened/Tempest-secure combat control center (CCC) with mere laptop and dialup--iron rations--water--hard tack and toilet paper so i can't do it from here

carl

 

[JCSTREET]

today's reviews--PART I

Scott X intrigues with Ghosts & Spiders

I knew a doctor
Who made blood flow through White Chapel
And a girl accused
Of killing her parents with an ax
I was a friend of the the magic man
Who escaped from padlocked trunks
And his grim author friend in Providence
I sat and had conversations
With the occult enthusiast and Old West bandit
Misfits and icons
Of a different era
But they are still around
Waiting to hear their names again
Amidst the dust, texts and frayed photos

This is a large poem which perhaps reminds us of the sixties since if wqe were truly there we have no memory of it--Scott gives us that memory--the second childhood of doped innocence that seemed so important at the time but for many is just ashes in the mouth

---

what can I say about Wickeed Eve's large offering today--we are blessed and cursed in this forum to have a rare bunch of lads and ladies who are preternaturally bright yet not overly psychotic and their

that grand old man of irony, jocularity, the curled lip twitting phrase, the innuendo designed to take our female viewers into his bower after sunfall, his all-knowing, over-arching view of things--twinged with a soupcon of the Gaeltacht continues this theme of "A la Recherche des Temps perdu" with

Beginner's Mind taking us once more to former times when the living was easy--this reminds me of going out early on a Sunday morning when I was--say--14--over the bullrushed ditch--past the red-winged blackbirds--into the rising heat of a summer morning to fossick for lost golfballs on the Montreal Municipal Golf Course and clean them on that soapy gadget on the tee and then offer them shyly to passing golfers--"qwauta Mister? -- give you 10 cents boy" - going home with two bucks and a quart size bottle of KIK cola and a May West (in Quebec that was a 10-cent cakes with brittle chocolate covering white cake with cream in the middle--like a discus--not quite a child then but close enough to this aboriginal Dreamtime spawned by Tatha's wondrous quill

what can I say about Wickeed Eve's large offering today--we are blessed and cursed in this forum to have a rare bunch of lads and ladies who are preternaturally bright yet not overly psychotic and their words are legion

Eve touches both the brain and the brawn - the appearance and the reality - you can feel the love and the depth of empathy in her "flour sack fresh" and

"summer toes
to be polliwog deep

I could go on and on with these lines--exegesing up the Ying Yang (Royal Naval slang for the Yangtze River in china back around the 19th cent.) but--like winning the lottery--how do you account for each dollar.

here's the link: Beau Comes Calling

Beau Comes Calling

Zoey scrubbed her brood
in sunned water, drying them
flour sack fresh,

but boys squirmed
for summer toes to be
polliwog deep.

Now, dime store hair wisps
beneath her kerchief,
while footbridge sways--

Beau Brummel comes calling.

~

Pitching Woo & Tadpoles

Weeds poke between
vine and chrome weave,
curious.

Rust clings metal to metal--
Tink's Ford holds Zoey's
parked past.

No longer does her man trigger
her lewd reaction.
Tink now enraptures ladies,
winged.

Backseat sighs are pressed
forth, even from vinyl
and memory.

She twines Beau,
legs around his able body
for her release,

until muddy-pond squeals
seem too near.

In childish eyes,
dusk distorts Zoey's
tremulous surrender.

Beau is bloodied
by tadpole buckets.

~

Childbirth Fever

Tink tongues nude hearts
over scalp,
before swell of belly
in downward gaze
persuades hands to sweet below.

Morning rouses Zoey
with anxious beams of light.
Touch fades over thighs
and settles flat above--
no more babies.

(Zoey brushed away sadness,
drying it with fallen strands.)

She leaves dreams behind for chores,
pausing to knot her kerchief
and look toward the creek
for footbridge sway.

----

Toward a Word--who is a stranger to us - pleases with this

again we meet
lovely Colleague
to share our affection
to indulge our hungers
my Goddess
let us renew our secret love

welcome, fair Neighbor
your taste always lingers

good day, distant Stranger
kindred spirit
passionate angel
our ardor
transcends the miles

ah, my virtual Chanteuse
video vixen
pleasing pattern of pixels
the very sight of you
entrances

oh.
Reality
it's you again
OK, OK
keep your drawers

============

I particularly like

ah, my virtual Chanteuse
video vixen
pleasing pattern of pixels
the very sight of you
entrances

which pretty well sums up all the cybering and phoneboning that one may or may not do on those grim winter nights suffused with a curious combo of both borderline depressiona nd wilful madness

(reaches for a big hit of Finlandia vodka while re-gathering his wit)

(it would be wit(s) in the States but is merely wit out in Ballina, County Mayo--after dark when the poitheen is in the mouth
and --if no vomitus issues--shortly in da belly)

here's the link: Mists and Sun

==========

Ninja Bookie sums up old man river in a simple haiku--I haven't checked the syllable count because I'm not trained as an accountant

From above they fall
Watery jewels in drops
refreshingly wet.

no link necessary--what you see is what you get

=======

Dustystar blows me away with Locomotive

again she's a strnager here but why should that matter--------

I particularly like: "sage brush runs ladders up my thighs
my breasts like pebbles
seizuring on the crossties

I would suckle those nipples any time--my wide flat feral slippery bearish tongue slip-slidin' arpound and about and over and under and up and down and
--------other ways

Our boxcars crash and couple,
pistoning.
Sage brush runs ladders up my thighs.
My breasts like pebbles
seizuring on the crossties.
Coal hair shovelled to the side,
a discarded hobo.
Comingled motley oils
rebel the heady taste of kicked dust.
A landscape of stubble radiates
then flashes by.

Hooded eyes casting sparks to the sun
squealing,
"There ain't no brakes on this here train!"

slivered lungs whistling
panting
gasp gasp
clutch
again
clench
again

==============

annaswirls recites the cinema verite (acute accent in the terminal <e>) which will be familiar to many
who got beyond high school--not unknown to teenage boys either--who--involved in a late teen orgy of mutual masturbation
were assaulted by at least one boy who suddenly interposed cock twixt lips--held their head tightly--and then face-fucked them as their head bounced against the wooden headboard--we've most all been there anna

Somewhere pinned Below Consent

but this verse particularly touches:

new blood soaked through
comforter, blanket, sheet, mattress
3am stumble to common laundry, cold floor
cold water wash it down
mind rearranging memories to make it
all okay, with secret plans

because this woman was a virgin

=========

Maria2394 delights with a simple, seminal reminder that Bliss is a simple thing--lying in the most bland diversions that one experiences out back of their country place or even while
observing a bird momentarily resting on their tiny backyard tree while they savor their
first morning cup of Joe

what is bliss?

a cherry pit~
from inside out not knowing
tongue or fingers will spring release
from plump and succulent cage-
Oh captor, thy skin is ripe
yes reddened with desire
to be tasted, if only once

feather pillows~
drinking in tears
of freshly fallen angels,
those angels know not joy of pillows
nor freedom of tears
yet they fall in torrents and sprinkles,
and pillows do not discriminate,
they drink up those forsaken and remember
liquid epistles of love and pain
as messages falling
straight from the eyes of God

fingernails~
anchored close to softness
if only for a while,
they too know bliss
of touch, of bath
of tracing lips and thighs

water~
knows all joy as virgin bride
and stranger to foreign soils and wrinkled hands-
Oh, but water, you are a killer of deserts
You, quencher of thirst,
will you ever know the bliss of wit?

laughter~
to experience this from inside out
fountains of mirth expelled onto faces
into souls of the living
for only the dead
cannot laugh

here's da link bliss

(there's still a ton of pomes to get through)

one wonders if Marias 0001 through 2393 are doing anything useful with their lives

=========

Steve Porter lends a metaphoric tone to the age-old Net question as to whom one's Daddy is (as in "make me your bitch, Daddy).

We can't tell for sure whether a maiden is being sullied by daddy--or maybe it's a male offspring getting a little
unbeckoned manual relief--who can say. But the poem sure touches:

sheila got her shot of tequila and goes
you know whenever i see a mans cock
i always think about my daddys knife

he used to sit me right on his lap and
then he would slowly pull that thing out
of its snug handjobbed rawhide casing

the leather smelled just like heather
she confesses as she takes the drink
and tosses it down her lovely throat

she is lost in the flush of alcohol and
the erotic rush of sharpened steel as
it peels free from its hugging sheath

he used to pour oil all over the shaft
and wipe with smooth slow strokes
until it was as polished as a mirror

when he touched it flat to my tummy
slapped the cold steel to my soft stomach
our faces danced up and down the blade

the inherent danger of its razored tip
as he scratched my vulnerable belly with
the hard smooth prick of my daddys knife.

and it's straight to the point--no pun intended

here's the link



=======

 

[JCSTREET]

today's reviews--PART I

Scott X intrigues with Ghosts & Spiders

I knew a doctor
Who made blood flow through White Chapel
And a girl accused
Of killing her parents with an ax
I was a friend of the the magic man
Who escaped from padlocked trunks
And his grim author friend in Providence
I sat and had conversations
With the occult enthusiast and Old West bandit
Misfits and icons
Of a different era
But they are still around
Waiting to hear their names again
Amidst the dust, texts and frayed photos

This is a large poem which perhaps reminds us of the sixties since if wqe were truly there we have no memory of it--Scott gives us that memory--the second childhood of doped innocence that seemed so important at the time but for many is just ashes in the mouth

---

what can I say about Wickeed Eve's large offering today--we are blessed and cursed in this forum to have a rare bunch of lads and ladies who are preternaturally bright yet not overly psychotic and their

that grand old man of irony, jocularity, the curled lip twitting phrase, the innuendo designed to take our female viewers into his bower after sunfall, his all-knowing, over-arching view of things--twinged with a soupcon of the Gaeltacht continues this theme of "A la Recherche des Temps perdu" with

Beginner's Mind taking us once more to former times when the living was easy--this reminds me of going out early on a Sunday morning when I was--say--14--over the bullrushed ditch--past the red-winged blackbirds--into the rising heat of a summer morning to fossick for lost golfballs on the Montreal Municipal Golf Course and clean them on that soapy gadget on the tee and then offer them shyly to passing golfers--"qwauta Mister? -- give you 10 cents boy" - going home with two bucks and a quart size bottle of KIK cola and a May West (in Quebec that was a 10-cent cakes with brittle chocolate covering white cake with cream in the middle--like a discus--not quite a child then but close enough to this aboriginal Dreamtime spawned by Tatha's wondrous quill

what can I say about Wickeed Eve's large offering today--we are blessed and cursed in this forum to have a rare bunch of lads and ladies who are preternaturally bright yet not overly psychotic and their words are legion

Eve touches both the brain and the brawn - the appearance and the reality - you can feel the love and the depth of empathy in her "flour sack fresh" and

"summer toes
to be polliwog deep

I could go on and on with these lines--exegesing up the Ying Yang (Royal Naval slang for the Yangtze River in china back around the 19th cent.) but--like winning the lottery--how do you account for each dollar.

here's the link: Beau Comes Calling

Beau Comes Calling

Zoey scrubbed her brood
in sunned water, drying them
flour sack fresh,

but boys squirmed
for summer toes to be
polliwog deep.

Now, dime store hair wisps
beneath her kerchief,
while footbridge sways--

Beau Brummel comes calling.

~

Pitching Woo & Tadpoles

Weeds poke between
vine and chrome weave,
curious.

Rust clings metal to metal--
Tink's Ford holds Zoey's
parked past.

No longer does her man trigger
her lewd reaction.
Tink now enraptures ladies,
winged.

Backseat sighs are pressed
forth, even from vinyl
and memory.

She twines Beau,
legs around his able body
for her release,

until muddy-pond squeals
seem too near.

In childish eyes,
dusk distorts Zoey's
tremulous surrender.

Beau is bloodied
by tadpole buckets.

~

Childbirth Fever

Tink tongues nude hearts
over scalp,
before swell of belly
in downward gaze
persuades hands to sweet below.

Morning rouses Zoey
with anxious beams of light.
Touch fades over thighs
and settles flat above--
no more babies.

(Zoey brushed away sadness,
drying it with fallen strands.)

She leaves dreams behind for chores,
pausing to knot her kerchief
and look toward the creek
for footbridge sway.

----

Toward a Word--who is a stranger to us - pleases with this

again we meet
lovely Colleague
to share our affection
to indulge our hungers
my Goddess
let us renew our secret love

welcome, fair Neighbor
your taste always lingers

good day, distant Stranger
kindred spirit
passionate angel
our ardor
transcends the miles

ah, my virtual Chanteuse
video vixen
pleasing pattern of pixels
the very sight of you
entrances

oh.
Reality
it's you again
OK, OK
keep your drawers

============

I particularly like

ah, my virtual Chanteuse
video vixen
pleasing pattern of pixels
the very sight of you
entrances

which pretty well sums up all the cybering and phoneboning that one may or may not do on those grim winter nights suffused with a curious combo of both borderline depressiona nd wilful madness

(reaches for a big hit of Finlandia vodka while re-gathering his wit)

(it would be wit(s) in the States but is merely wit out in Ballina, County Mayo--after dark when the poitheen is in the mouth
and --if no vomitus issues--shortly in da belly)

here's the link: Mists and Sun

==========

Ninja Bookie sums up old man river in a simple haiku--I haven't checked the syllable count because I'm not trained as an accountant

From above they fall
Watery jewels in drops
refreshingly wet.

no link necessary--what you see is what you get

=======

Dustystar blows me away with Locomotive

again she's a strnager here but why should that matter--------

I particularly like: "sage brush runs ladders up my thighs
my breasts like pebbles
seizuring on the crossties

I would suckle those nipples any time--my wide flat feral slippery bearish tongue slip-slidin' arpound and about and over and under and up and down and
--------other ways

Our boxcars crash and couple,
pistoning.
Sage brush runs ladders up my thighs.
My breasts like pebbles
seizuring on the crossties.
Coal hair shovelled to the side,
a discarded hobo.
Comingled motley oils
rebel the heady taste of kicked dust.
A landscape of stubble radiates
then flashes by.

Hooded eyes casting sparks to the sun
squealing,
"There ain't no brakes on this here train!"

slivered lungs whistling
panting
gasp gasp
clutch
again
clench
again

==============

annaswirls recites the cinema verite (acute accent in the terminal <e>) which will be familiar to many
who got beyond high school--not unknown to teenage boys either--who--involved in a late teen orgy of mutual masturbation
were assaulted by at least one boy who suddenly interposed cock twixt lips--held their head tightly--and then face-fucked them as their head bounced against the wooden headboard--we've most all been there anna

Somewhere pinned Below Consent

but this verse particularly touches:

new blood soaked through
comforter, blanket, sheet, mattress
3am stumble to common laundry, cold floor
cold water wash it down
mind rearranging memories to make it
all okay, with secret plans

because this woman was a virgin

=========

Maria2394 delights with a simple, seminal reminder that Bliss is a simple thing--lying in the most bland diversions that one experiences out back of their country place or even while
observing a bird momentarily resting on their tiny backyard tree while they savor their
first morning cup of Joe

what is bliss?

a cherry pit~
from inside out not knowing
tongue or fingers will spring release
from plump and succulent cage-
Oh captor, thy skin is ripe
yes reddened with desire
to be tasted, if only once

feather pillows~
drinking in tears
of freshly fallen angels,
those angels know not joy of pillows
nor freedom of tears
yet they fall in torrents and sprinkles,
and pillows do not discriminate,
they drink up those forsaken and remember
liquid epistles of love and pain
as messages falling
straight from the eyes of God

fingernails~
anchored close to softness
if only for a while,
they too know bliss
of touch, of bath
of tracing lips and thighs

water~
knows all joy as virgin bride
and stranger to foreign soils and wrinkled hands-
Oh, but water, you are a killer of deserts
You, quencher of thirst,
will you ever know the bliss of wit?

laughter~
to experience this from inside out
fountains of mirth expelled onto faces
into souls of the living
for only the dead
cannot laugh

here's da link bliss

(there's still a ton of pomes to get through)

one wonders if Marias 0001 through 2393 are doing anything useful with their lives

=========

Steve Porter lends a metaphoric tone to the age-old Net question as to whom one's Daddy is (as in "make me your bitch, Daddy).

We can't tell for sure whether a maiden is being sullied by daddy--or maybe it's a male offspring getting a little
unbeckoned manual relief--who can say. But the poem sure touches:

sheila got her shot of tequila and goes
you know whenever i see a mans cock
i always think about my daddys knife

he used to sit me right on his lap and
then he would slowly pull that thing out
of its snug handjobbed rawhide casing

the leather smelled just like heather
she confesses as she takes the drink
and tosses it down her lovely throat

she is lost in the flush of alcohol and
the erotic rush of sharpened steel as
it peels free from its hugging sheath

he used to pour oil all over the shaft
and wipe with smooth slow strokes
until it was as polished as a mirror

when he touched it flat to my tummy
slapped the cold steel to my soft stomach
our faces danced up and down the blade

the inherent danger of its razored tip
as he scratched my vulnerable belly with
the hard smooth prick of my daddys knife.

and it's straight to the point--no pun intended

here's the link



=======

 

[JCSTREET]

today's reviews--PART I

Scott X intrigues with Ghosts & Spiders

I knew a doctor
Who made blood flow through White Chapel
And a girl accused
Of killing her parents with an ax
I was a friend of the the magic man
Who escaped from padlocked trunks
And his grim author friend in Providence
I sat and had conversations
With the occult enthusiast and Old West bandit
Misfits and icons
Of a different era
But they are still around
Waiting to hear their names again
Amidst the dust, texts and frayed photos

This is a large poem which perhaps reminds us of the sixties since if wqe were truly there we have no memory of it--Scott gives us that memory--the second childhood of doped innocence that seemed so important at the time but for many is just ashes in the mouth

---

what can I say about Wickeed Eve's large offering today--we are blessed and cursed in this forum to have a rare bunch of lads and ladies who are preternaturally bright yet not overly psychotic and their

that grand old man of irony, jocularity, the curled lip twitting phrase, the innuendo designed to take our female viewers into his bower after sunfall, his all-knowing, over-arching view of things--twinged with a soupcon of the Gaeltacht continues this theme of "A la Recherche des Temps perdu" with

Beginner's Mind taking us once more to former times when the living was easy--this reminds me of going out early on a Sunday morning when I was--say--14--over the bullrushed ditch--past the red-winged blackbirds--into the rising heat of a summer morning to fossick for lost golfballs on the Montreal Municipal Golf Course and clean them on that soapy gadget on the tee and then offer them shyly to passing golfers--"qwauta Mister? -- give you 10 cents boy" - going home with two bucks and a quart size bottle of KIK cola and a May West (in Quebec that was a 10-cent cakes with brittle chocolate covering white cake with cream in the middle--like a discus--not quite a child then but close enough to this aboriginal Dreamtime spawned by Tatha's wondrous quill

what can I say about Wickeed Eve's large offering today--we are blessed and cursed in this forum to have a rare bunch of lads and ladies who are preternaturally bright yet not overly psychotic and their words are legion

Eve touches both the brain and the brawn - the appearance and the reality - you can feel the love and the depth of empathy in her "flour sack fresh" and

"summer toes
to be polliwog deep

I could go on and on with these lines--exegesing up the Ying Yang (Royal Naval slang for the Yangtze River in china back around the 19th cent.) but--like winning the lottery--how do you account for each dollar.

here's the link: Beau Comes Calling

Beau Comes Calling

Zoey scrubbed her brood
in sunned water, drying them
flour sack fresh,

but boys squirmed
for summer toes to be
polliwog deep.

Now, dime store hair wisps
beneath her kerchief,
while footbridge sways--

Beau Brummel comes calling.

~

Pitching Woo & Tadpoles

Weeds poke between
vine and chrome weave,
curious.

Rust clings metal to metal--
Tink's Ford holds Zoey's
parked past.

No longer does her man trigger
her lewd reaction.
Tink now enraptures ladies,
winged.

Backseat sighs are pressed
forth, even from vinyl
and memory.

She twines Beau,
legs around his able body
for her release,

until muddy-pond squeals
seem too near.

In childish eyes,
dusk distorts Zoey's
tremulous surrender.

Beau is bloodied
by tadpole buckets.

~

Childbirth Fever

Tink tongues nude hearts
over scalp,
before swell of belly
in downward gaze
persuades hands to sweet below.

Morning rouses Zoey
with anxious beams of light.
Touch fades over thighs
and settles flat above--
no more babies.

(Zoey brushed away sadness,
drying it with fallen strands.)

She leaves dreams behind for chores,
pausing to knot her kerchief
and look toward the creek
for footbridge sway.

----

Toward a Word--who is a stranger to us - pleases with this

again we meet
lovely Colleague
to share our affection
to indulge our hungers
my Goddess
let us renew our secret love

welcome, fair Neighbor
your taste always lingers

good day, distant Stranger
kindred spirit
passionate angel
our ardor
transcends the miles

ah, my virtual Chanteuse
video vixen
pleasing pattern of pixels
the very sight of you
entrances

oh.
Reality
it's you again
OK, OK
keep your drawers

============

I particularly like

ah, my virtual Chanteuse
video vixen
pleasing pattern of pixels
the very sight of you
entrances

which pretty well sums up all the cybering and phoneboning that one may or may not do on those grim winter nights suffused with a curious combo of both borderline depressiona nd wilful madness

(reaches for a big hit of Finlandia vodka while re-gathering his wit)

(it would be wit(s) in the States but is merely wit out in Ballina, County Mayo--after dark when the poitheen is in the mouth
and --if no vomitus issues--shortly in da belly)

here's the link: Mists and Sun

==========

Ninja Bookie sums up old man river in a simple haiku--I haven't checked the syllable count because I'm not trained as an accountant

From above they fall
Watery jewels in drops
refreshingly wet.

no link necessary--what you see is what you get

=======

Dustystar blows me away with Locomotive

again she's a strnager here but why should that matter--------

I particularly like: "sage brush runs ladders up my thighs
my breasts like pebbles
seizuring on the crossties

I would suckle those nipples any time--my wide flat feral slippery bearish tongue slip-slidin' arpound and about and over and under and up and down and
--------other ways

Our boxcars crash and couple,
pistoning.
Sage brush runs ladders up my thighs.
My breasts like pebbles
seizuring on the crossties.
Coal hair shovelled to the side,
a discarded hobo.
Comingled motley oils
rebel the heady taste of kicked dust.
A landscape of stubble radiates
then flashes by.

Hooded eyes casting sparks to the sun
squealing,
"There ain't no brakes on this here train!"

slivered lungs whistling
panting
gasp gasp
clutch
again
clench
again

==============

annaswirls recites the cinema verite (acute accent in the terminal <e>) which will be familiar to many
who got beyond high school--not unknown to teenage boys either--who--involved in a late teen orgy of mutual masturbation
were assaulted by at least one boy who suddenly interposed cock twixt lips--held their head tightly--and then face-fucked them as their head bounced against the wooden headboard--we've most all been there anna

Somewhere pinned Below Consent

but this verse particularly touches:

new blood soaked through
comforter, blanket, sheet, mattress
3am stumble to common laundry, cold floor
cold water wash it down
mind rearranging memories to make it
all okay, with secret plans

because this woman was a virgin

=========

Maria2394 delights with a simple, seminal reminder that Bliss is a simple thing--lying in the most bland diversions that one experiences out back of their country place or even while
observing a bird momentarily resting on their tiny backyard tree while they savor their
first morning cup of Joe

what is bliss?

a cherry pit~
from inside out not knowing
tongue or fingers will spring release
from plump and succulent cage-
Oh captor, thy skin is ripe
yes reddened with desire
to be tasted, if only once

feather pillows~
drinking in tears
of freshly fallen angels,
those angels know not joy of pillows
nor freedom of tears
yet they fall in torrents and sprinkles,
and pillows do not discriminate,
they drink up those forsaken and remember
liquid epistles of love and pain
as messages falling
straight from the eyes of God

fingernails~
anchored close to softness
if only for a while,
they too know bliss
of touch, of bath
of tracing lips and thighs

water~
knows all joy as virgin bride
and stranger to foreign soils and wrinkled hands-
Oh, but water, you are a killer of deserts
You, quencher of thirst,
will you ever know the bliss of wit?

laughter~
to experience this from inside out
fountains of mirth expelled onto faces
into souls of the living
for only the dead
cannot laugh

here's da link bliss

(there's still a ton of pomes to get through)

one wonders if Marias 0001 through 2393 are doing anything useful with their lives

=========

Steve Porter lends a metaphoric tone to the age-old Net question as to whom one's Daddy is (as in "make me your bitch, Daddy).

We can't tell for sure whether a maiden is being sullied by daddy--or maybe it's a male offspring getting a little
unbeckoned manual relief--who can say. But the poem sure touches:

sheila got her shot of tequila and goes
you know whenever i see a mans cock
i always think about my daddys knife

he used to sit me right on his lap and
then he would slowly pull that thing out
of its snug handjobbed rawhide casing

the leather smelled just like heather
she confesses as she takes the drink
and tosses it down her lovely throat

she is lost in the flush of alcohol and
the erotic rush of sharpened steel as
it peels free from its hugging sheath

he used to pour oil all over the shaft
and wipe with smooth slow strokes
until it was as polished as a mirror

when he touched it flat to my tummy
slapped the cold steel to my soft stomach
our faces danced up and down the blade

the inherent danger of its razored tip
as he scratched my vulnerable belly with
the hard smooth prick of my daddys knife.

and it's straight to the point--no pun intended

here's the link



=======

 

[JCSTREET]

WELL!!!!!!! in an effort to

compensate for an Armageddon loss of connectivity I seem to have become guilty of excess--perish the thought--however--I feel that years from now members of this group will have forgotten the momentary repetitive strain injury that all this scrolling has cost them

yer bro

 

[JCSTREET]

well-here's Part II (bet you thought i would say HERE'S JOHNNY

RazzKajen gives us: New Ways, finally?

slow slips of sliding sharp edges
Step off , if
you can float slowly
in lazy circles
wafted by breeze
caresses and warm
wishes.
Now and
sometimes
He looks and plucks
one at a
time and feeds.
Feeds again
Sates His self.

==================

I don't know quietpoly either nd I guess that's the derivation of her nic--whether she is
simply submissive or just shy (potential diff) I have no idea but I like the easy lilt of her pen:

Water will rise.
Rain will freeze into ice.
Those who plundered
with plunge
deep into the darkness.

Glaciers will melt.
The North will be barren.
As Borders collapse
people will run
further South.

But why stop?
Burn more oil..
The sweet smell of suicide
is a perverse joy
of being human.

Yes. In death alone
does Godliness have meaning
for Ceativity we have none
sold as we are to the wheels
of bourgeious slavery.

Burn oil.
Dance, drink wine,
and chant incantations of pleasure
and then drive into a hard wall
as you deserve.

Burn oil.
Light the fire
on the fatted belly
and rejoice for you are closer
to Valhalla than you think.

Smell the tar,
the charring woods,
the ebony of soot that lines
your lungs and tempts you
to drink to your death.

Shower in Oil
Bathe and dissolve
like the fat that oozes out
of your large body
full of Mcdonalds and Burger King fries.

Fry
Not just yourself
but the lands you conquer
with flaming Napalm
Show them what Oil can do.

You are master.
King. God.
In your own obese brain.
Drive your SUV
straight into a train.

OK--Poly is not quite there yet--she has good turns of phrase and overall this poem touches us -
but there is some carelessness there--either spelling mistakes or just not copy editing before committing one's heart to the heartless screen

I think she is young and yet unformed but is that is so she has made a compelling start

I like:

Water will rise.
Rain will freeze into ice.
Those who plundered
with plunge
deep into the darkness.

Glaciers will melt.
The North will be barren.
As Borders collapse
people will run
further South.

But why stop?
Burn more oil..
The sweet smell of suicide
is a perverse joy
of being human.

Yes. In death alone
does Godliness have meaning
for Ceativity we have none
sold as we are to the wheels
of bourgeious slavery.

Burn oil.
Dance, drink wine,
and chant incantations of pleasure
and then drive into a hard wall
as you deserve.

Burn oil.
Light the fire
on the fatted belly
and rejoice for you are closer
to Valhalla than you think.

Smell the tar,
the charring woods,
the ebony of soot that lines
your lungs and tempts you
to drink to your death.

Shower in Oil
Bathe and dissolve
like the fat that oozes out
of your large body
full of Mcdonalds and Burger King fries.

Fry
Not just yourself
but the lands you conquer
with flaming Napalm
Show them what Oil can do.

You are master.
King. God.
In your own obese brain.
Drive your SUV
straight into a train.

---

I like:

Smell the tar,
the charring woods,
the ebony of soot that lines
your lungs and tempts you
to drink to your death.

but the last line is too expicit--poly has nto yet learned sparsity and metaphor perhaps


I might well have written "to immolate" as that last line--but who's counting

here's the link:

The Perversity of Being Human

older men take a perverse pleasure in finding unformed poets because they feel there are possibilities for seduction if their character is wavering on the day--mine isn't

============

flyguy gives us a tight little number here with

Can't Sleep II

(may I recommend nepenthe--you'll know it when you feel it--otherwise read Baudeliare for a pharmacopeiea)

Flowers fidget in a midnight breeze
nudge each other and nod
Moonlight bleeds them of color but tells them
all they need to know

I pose for them in the back door frame
Backlit
Chiaroscuro
Hung on a hinge to swing

I’ve swirled you into a cup of warm milk
A heady brew of butterscotch, perfume and sex
Something to soften
the hard edge of obsession

I sip its strength and your wet words overflow me
Dribbling from my lips
to my chest
and down
A pale trickle of light and life

With my eyes closed the view is the same
An overture shrouded in night
Daytime visitors see them with their lipstick on
Their hair up
Dressed
But I see them when they are beautiful

here's the link:

Can't Sleep II