October Poetry Challenge: Meet you in Hell!

[Nigel Debonnaire]

Canto XXXIV: Crawling

cantstop

So cold, so cold.
Leaden hands grasp
thick hair rougher
than any wire brush,
hair caked with frozen urine.
Crawling, crawling,
the void within me
quaking, arid quaking.

cantstopcantstop

The world’s turned upside down;
I’m turned inside out.

Satan’s foul breath
was bad enough,
but crawling past
his hairy cock and balls,
down his leg. . .

cantstopcantstopcantstop

Can’t go back,
ever, ever,
too many stories,
too many friends
lost in the flames.
My heart spews. . .

Wire fraying hair
burns my hands,
hair fraying vapor
burns my nose,
Keep going
somehow.

cantstopcantstopcantstopcantstop

Heavy arms pulling.
Routine: left, right, left, right.
Barely pulling.
Do the routine,
left, right, left, right.
don’t think
don’t feel,
left, right, left, right.
Do.

cant
stop
ca
nt
s
t
o
p

Escape: upward, forward.
Crawling out of Satan’s asshole;
MY GOD THE SMELL!!!!!! !!!!!! !!!!!!
(retching dryly)
follow my guide,
my dead, unfeeling guide.

Arms getting heavy.

cant

stop

No one else has it here:
Hope that She will be there, somewhere,
forward,
upward,
Hope. . .

 

[Tzara]

Lost

Not devils skewering with pitchforks,
nor bubbling pools of lead. No cries
of torment under torture. In fact,
no pain at all. Hell is just heaven

with no Beatrice.

 

[annaswirls]

Wonderful work going on here! This forum has been jumping with activity, glad to see y'all stopping in hell. Sorry I was not a better leader, I have not been writing lately much at all.

The contest bit is going to be your standard Poll. I will start a new thread for voting (please let me know if you do not wish to be a part of it)

It is not going to be anon. voting or anon writing, just put em up and vote for yer favorite- whoever wants to vote, as long as you sign in.

Prize: I would like to buy the winner a small press chapbook ideally by or including a lit character.

Get yer poem here on this thread before October 25. I know I said October 20, bonus plan. I am feeling lightheaded from the hair dye.

Voting between October 26-30.

I will work with the winner to make a choice in poetry chapbook or anthology magazine, etc. . because there is such a variety in tastes around here. Let's support the small press

 

[My Erotic Trail]

The Cowboy at Diablo's Canyon

Thunder bellowed across the heavens on a cloudless night; in the distance I saw their devil red eyes, glowing brighter as they were coming closer and closer to the boxed end of Diablo's Canyon. A whip lashed out and cracked; as if lightening had struck. Ghost riders driving a heard straight into the bowels of hell. My herd stampeded, I grasped the harness of my steed as I mounted; the horse and I were engulfed in a dust devil's wake. Drawn into Diablo Cavern by the wake of the GHOST RIDERS, like the ocean pulls one into the surf. My first circle of thought was FEAR, not a tactic of the Devil but a soul's internal alarm.

Where there is smoke, there is fire. Agonizing tears rolled down my cheek, not from sorrow or pain, but the body's response to excessive exposure to smoke. I pulled my bandana to rest across my nose and mouth. Bellowing smoke trailed with rolling clouds, blinding me. One must go onward, or sit in the circle of smoke and suffocate. There is no choice, other than to sift forward with circling thoughts of, HOPE. The Horse pulled at the reins; its verbal response relayed its dislike for the surroundings. But as a sliver of light gleamed through a fire's fog, I felt hope smother my fears, if only for a moment. The horse needed no guidance which way to go; into the light.

Dark is darkness, no matter how much light you put upon it. A cavern's mouth, teeth above and below, was tainted with stalactites breath. Pools of fire burned off black smoke racing to the entrance, a signal to tell the night that the under world Lord has awakened. I kicked the horse's flanks and urged him to go onward; reluctantly he obeyed. The cave swallowed us whole as we made our way into the depths of hell. We came upon an old iron gate, shackled by a chain and secured with a lock. I had to make the choice, so I fired my pistol and shot the lock 'off'. I opened these gates and rode under a sign; the inscription was not familiar to me, but any way you wish to say it, write it, and/or feel it: I was TRESPASSING on another's circle.

In consumption's roar, fire lit the way, downward, spiraling, descending deeper and farther from safety. I wondered why did I continue to be drawn into what I feared the most? Grasping the cross I wear around my neck, I pleaded for strength and begged for FORGIVENESS... the words circled in my mouth over and over to whom it matters the most, the ones I love as well as from the divine Holy Ghost. Asking for mercy without words may be thought of by some as prayer.

Beating drums mirrored my heart's pounding, the cavern walls echoed the horse's clattering hooves and the clank of my spurs was swallowed up by this percussion sound's growth as we neared the end of the trail. The horse was overwhelmed by creatures I've never seen before; in dreams or imagination. They burst from the rocks as if they were portals that only they could emerge from. These creatures of drool and slime pulled me from my saddle in numbers as I fired off two rounds and killed two guardians of hell, but I was wrong; how can you kill the dead? I was shackled, bound by my feet and hanging upside down in half the blink of an eye. I felt like a captured animal about to be devoured, realizing that DEATH lives.

The long horns of a steer, mounted on a red skull, emerged from the depths of darkness. His tail followed his hoofed footprints as he approached me with intent, circling my hanging body as if trying to decide where to sink his teeth first, while his tail circled then whipped out wildly. He came back before me and snarled, sniffed and squinted his red eyes at me. "You are only allowed one thought in my world! What thought circles in your feeble human mind right now?" He bellowed. His throat growled with words, grunts and hissing as he whipped his tail around to his liking. The only thought I had was what I cling to the most... LIFE.

There were six winds blowing, six clouds streaking, and six steers standing in the seven acre valley of Diablo Canyon. My eyes opened, then shut as my mouth opened much wider. Yawning, I stretched outward and hugged the day's first light, multi-colored in peaceful dim shades of brightness growing. The camp fire smoldered a small slivering trail of smoke, beckoning to be stirred. My horse stood, saddle-less, grazing, plucking flowers from their hold on mother nature. I stood and thought, this is what I LOVE.

 

[arienette]

Lucid Movements in Madness

I watch you carefully, examining
your every move and dissecting
every slip of your fingers
through the pages you let fly
and crash to the hard wood planks.

I lick my lips as you look up.
You were born to slumber
beneath the crevices of line breaks -
Of great literature, of stanzas penned
by women before you,
of words too true to be taught
in school books.

Your black, sling back heels
hit the floor boards again and again -
Left, right, left and back to the center.
Our eyes meet from the stage
to several rows of seats
and the trailing voice of
metaphors and similes -
The fifty most artistic words
to describe sex halts,
but no one seems to notice.

You've grown accustomed
to the spotlight, but your voice
still fails you from time to time.

You descend the foot and a half hierarchy,
the fabric of your dress
cut and sewn inches above the knee -
sheer drawing attention from the
spectators floats and defies gravity
behind and around you.

Flash forward -
We climb the two flights of stairs
and you're carrying the usual loot.

A satchel full of secrets scrawled
by your hand and presenting
themselves from your lips,
dressed in dark crimson.

An elixir to make every movement
second nature. To make the surroundings
just a little out of focus.
To make you beg to remember
when the sun rises again.

Delectable satins and lace
you weren't sure of how
to carry correctly -
But I eased you out of them
just as eagerly.

We collide into each other,
onto the mattress I didn't care enough
to flip. The sheets in need of a good wash.
But you pay them no mind
as you lift your chin
and extend your arms to be reciprocated.

You blanket me in unsure,
trembling breaths
never short of commentary
on how you view the pale flesh before you.

Salvaging the moment, we flip
and I slip between the clasps of your thighs
and your head lifts and buries beneath pillows.

I bathe myself in temptation,
pleading temporary insanity when I ask
what you're trying to get out of this,
out of me and you stare blankly;
but I still admire the way you choose
your words when you've recovered.

I drink until the bottle is empty,
until you're curled in covers and expecting
one last kiss, an affirmative
on slipping into sleep.

I cringe and melt into the sweet
and sullen voices coming from the speakers
of the CD player, a disk you picked out
for yet another occassion, a rendezvous
ending in 'I'll call you again soon.'

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Burbs ~ the depths of hell ~

v.
They landed, brown
javelins sharp
heads struck
and tenuously anchored
in sandy loam
blankets on manufactured
terrain.
Their outstretched arms
were wings caught flame
and this is how they greeted
the suspicious neighbors
who held flint to their feet
until the block party came

came to burn the Crosses
on the barely organic
bright green lawn.

iv.
No window shows
Mother in the basement sewing
and he goes
predator
stalking his

daughter​

hand pressed tightly to her mouth,

predelictions indifferent
to her pale, pained eyes.

iii.
Dance dates written on calendars--
unwritten expectations placed beside:
eyelet lace rituals
like innoculations and things designed
to distract from fear
of succubi pooled
in phosphorous lingerie.
Children whisper
of the place their older
siblings go, a grandly named
space between fences.

"ghost alley" is whispered
or shrugged off
with smug claim
that this a place of their own, taken
for granted
hovering just above the carrot
luring
penitents to gaze
at Judas' ceiling.


ii.
It shouldn't matter,
maybe it shouldn't,
that the betrayed
stays to watch on
arranged and paid
for the show and sold
tickets.
The bay window is lit
and gauze curtains shift
silver in the cramped breeze of ceiling
which moves only drapes.

i.
Popcorn is sold everywhere
but bought more in corner convenience
marts; art rebellion sprayed
on the cinderblock is really
guerilla marketing.
No place here is off the grid:
all green test markets.

The popcorn is not buttered
but coated
and the seats
of the theatre reek
of apportioned complaisance,
retardant
even when your hair's
aflame.

 

[Seduceros2]

untitled

dry dream
our nakedness

was unforeseen
and perfunctory;

your eyes
two holes

in brittle
bone china,

full of
rain covered

tar, clenched
mine;

grave flesh
crypt cool

slabbed hard
as stern

open mouth
linen kisses

arid muslin
bites became;


we pulled
dual-suicide

jumpers smashed
to bed;

your hair
coronal splash

crazed cracks

black on
pillow white

cotton concrete,
and doll-like

legs sprawled
shatter hip

wide, exposed
wound spreading

wet across
pavement sheets;


we fucked
dog-fight rabid

asylum scream
straightjacket freedom,

obscene raging
frothing frenzy

damaged derangement.
Ravishing ravage,

pure lust,
hole need---

none

we felt nothing---
empty kill jar,

lidless

 

[annaswirls]

dayum!!!!

y'all are hell bent on kicking my ass with some awesome poetry!

Midnight tomorrow is the deadline, lets try not to push it, I am too tired to look up time zones-- so if you post it late, just tell me, hey it is still the 25th here!

Let me know if you do NOT want your poem here to be put into the contest. Thanks

 

[arienette]

dayum!!!!

y'all are hell bent on kicking my ass with some awesome poetry!

Midnight tomorrow is the deadline, lets try not to push it, I am too tired to look up time zones-- so if you post it late, just tell me, hey it is still the 25th here!

Let me know if you do NOT want your poem here to be put into the contest. Thanks

That means I have one more chance to write another poem, since I am lacking in creativity... *gets out notebook*

 

[annaswirls]

That means I have one more chance to write another poem, since I am lacking in creativity... *gets out notebook*

cool beans! We will have to have two voting threads anyway-- round 1 to narrow it down, round 2 to select a winnah.

Details to come. Come on peoples, lets get this show on the road, my parents are in town tomorrow and my lit time will be limited

 

[arienette]

cool beans! We will have to have two voting threads anyway-- round 1 to narrow it down, round 2 to select a winnah.

Details to come. Come on peoples, lets get this show on the road, my parents are in town tomorrow and my lit time will be limited

Oh no, the parents!!!

 

[champagne1982]

dayum!!!!

y'all are hell bent on kicking my ass with some awesome poetry!

Midnight tomorrow is the deadline, lets try not to push it, I am too tired to look up time zones-- so if you post it late, just tell me, hey it is still the 25th here!

Let me know if you do NOT want your poem here to be put into the contest. Thanks

hey there anna.. don't bother entering my little ditty back on the first page. I've had such a great couple of months here that no way is hell or purgatory even the least little bit on my mind. If you'd caught me when I was waiting for the operation, maybe then I'd have been doing a "there are no atheists in foxholes" bit of praying, but not now. Not when I have regained my immortality (or is that immorality ?) .

 

[arienette]

hey there anna.. don't bother entering my little ditty back on the first page. I've had such a great couple of months here that no way is hell or purgatory even the least little bit on my mind. If you'd caught me when I was waiting for the operation, maybe then I'd have been doing a "there are no atheists in foxholes" bit of praying, but not now. Not when I have regained my immortality (or is that immorality ?) .

I'd choose the latter.
Good to see you're feeling nice and happy.

I have a lot of hell in me...I keep writing, just nothing of substance.

 

[ParrotDee]

Lost

Not devils skewering with pitchforks,
nor bubbling pools of lead. No cries
of torment under torture. In fact,
no pain at all. Hell is just heaven

with no Beatrice.

My fav. But probably wrong. Jorge Luis Borges wrote a wonderful essay on calling attention to the story of Paulo and Francesca united in Hell, together. Borges found it rather tender.
I believe the story really was no Beatrice on Earth, idolization of, reward in Heaven. Oh dem golden slippers....fourty virgins for the martyrs.

I shall use your title for my belated and beloved submission.

Lost

Virgil?
Oh, hell!


which thankfully is very short.

 

[bogusbrig]

My fav. But probably wrong. Jorge Luis Borges wrote a wonderful essay on calling attention to the story of Paulo and Francesca united in Hell, together. Borges found it rather tender.
I believe the story really was no Beatrice on Earth, idolization of, reward in Heaven. Oh dem golden slippers....fourty virgins for the martyrs.

I shall use your title for my belated and beloved submission.

Lost

Virgil?
Oh, hell!


which thankfully is very short.

I've got to second this. Tzara's poem was so different from all the Dantesque poems and it says so much with so little.

 

[Tzara]

Thanks bb and Mr. Parrot (Polly wanna crack whore?) for your kind comments. You're wrong, but thanks anyway.

I thought that this challenge resulted in a number of quite consistently high quality poems. Basically all of them were very good and I thank Ms. Anna for proposing it.

Note she left her poems off the voting thread and Ms. Champ also opted out, so there were even more good things that weren't being voted upon.

I would spell it Vergil, though.

 

[ParrotDee]

Thanks bb and Mr. Parrot (Polly wanna crack whore?) for your kind comments. You're wrong, but thanks anyway.

I thought that this challenge resulted in a number of quite consistently high quality poems. Basically all of them were very good and I thank Ms. Anna for proposing it.

Note she left her poems off the voting thread and Ms. Champ also opted out, so there were even more good things that weren't being voted upon.

I would spell it Vergil, though.

Wrong about what? Transliteration's a bitch.
You're outvoted, via google
virgil dante
762,000
vergil dante
472,000
Transubstantiation is too.

 

[Tzara]

Wrong about what? Transliteration's a bitch.

That my poem was best or fave. It wasn't. Thank you both, though, for saying nice things about it. I liked S_in_S's one best myself.

You're outvoted, via google
virgil dante
762,000
vergil dante
472,000

No matter. Liberal minority sympathizer, me.

Q: What's Vergil got to do with Dante?
A: "And cheeses?" I think.

 

[ParrotDee]

That my poem was best or fave. It wasn't. Thank you both, though, for saying nice things about it. I liked S_in_S's one best myself.No matter.

oh, you give me grief because I make a value judgement, yet you make one yourself
How about I buy you a consolation prize, a Chap stick, figuring your lips must be blistered after that Polly want a crack whore bonbon , which I probably will gleefully steal.
Too bad you didn't take the Transubstantiation bait.
It was tough just picking three, and I could never figure out who voted for what.