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DeepAsleep said:Empty evening at the bar, watching women in glitter makeup read poems on an idiot's stage, they're Bukowski's sewing circle women writing poems about stars and kittens. My hat's been wearing me too long, matting down my hair, this place is so classy I am breaking lenten vows without apology to my wounded ethics my stricken morality my ridiculous need to prove things to myself and pouring whiskey into me. Guy named Byron writes poems because he wants to be a poet not because he has to write poetry and it's always mid-life crisis sex poems, his jeans are too tight and he shows off his package and his expensive watch and buys women drinks and takes them home because he's a fucking sex poet, writing poems about how sensitive he fucks/he is and then poems about his kids, his adopted kids so now people know what a sensitive fuckface he is and I'm sick at the bar, writing poems about the bartender's great ass and how she pours drinks and I wish I could write sensitive fuck poems about the softness where thighs meet, but I'm more the, "Lie back, baby and pretend your feet hate each other" type so I can't take Janelle the girl with Calliope hair and corinthian legs, she's got tits like adopted children, you just want to take them home and hold them and tell them everything's alright and I can't take her back to my place because she's
infatuated
with the goddam fuck poets and the sewing circles not me and my barnapkin poems about scuffmarks on my shoes
my shoes say I LOVE YOU pointed out at everyone I stand in front of and no one ever looks down to see what I wrote on the white rubber of my Chuck Taylors with the canvas blown out so bad on the sides that you can see my socks or my feet if I'm not wearing socks and I wish they'd look down and know I love them because I can't say it out loud I had to write it on my shoes.
drunk inna backa the bar and its my turn to read on the stage and I walk thru talk scattered applause and above them all I talk to everyone about abortions in bathtubs and my ribs are hitched to my heart tied down to a piece of bloody muscle and I can't breathe enough to speak under all those lights and I'm alone under all the white and blue and orange and green spots listening to people gasp trying not to cry not to fuck up this poem I want to flick at them like broken blood from my unthinking clenched fingers and when I take three steps down with my jaw clenched against everything they look like I shot their dogs and I'm ok with it and thinking about the subject matter of my poems maybe it is fuckpoems just not the kind that make women want to go home with you and I'm ok with that, too.
Angeline said:I have nothing new to say.
This is sleepwalking today
just another edge
through the minefield.
Years ago I told you I'd love
to dance ballet feet
through your wrecked backyard--
toes en pointe among discard
of motors stopped like clocks
and oil filters standing
in upended Ohs, surprised
at my impromtu performance,
but now I pick through necessity
anyway. I live a metaphor
of once upon an expectation:
dance through probability
in sensible shoes without
an ounce of sense in me.
I've learned nothing,
but to keep moving.
Fflow said:I like this.
Very much.
Damn, DA; this is fucking amazing!DeepAsleep said:Empty evening at the bar, watching women in glitter makeup read poems on an idiot's stage, they're Bukowski's sewing circle ....
TheRainMan said:Backscratcher
One look at her nails carved hard
by files into bird beaks
and brushed like savage candy,
and I know the animals in her will touch
tonight the hard to reach in me. I dream
the catblades after knots are undone
and straps trail loose
down her shoulders. I dream myself
her prey, scarlet dripping over me,
tips sprung like talons and poised high
again, somewhere
between threat and gift. I dream
their bond, each a tooth in the spread jaw
of a wolf as it eyes the bitten place
and then the others, and revels
in attachment to the pack. I dream
their blood sport, each an individual,
a whole, teaming up on me. I dream
I hear jungle music, each nail
playing like plectra on the strings
of a shredded back. I dream her palms
planted there in worship as if my destruction
is her altar, as if each rake is a discovery,
exposing parts of me
like pious secrets found and laid bare.
It is no dream that to them blood is art,
that they will draw on me
in crowning strokes, like I am canvas,
a barbaric thicket of roses, a masterpiece
of moving wounds that will remain
to remind me
of the imperfections of my still life.
MistressJett said:Damn - that's fucking awesome.
I haven't seen anyone with writing on their Chucks since before I switched to Vans 'cos they're comfier to walk a lot in.
flyguy69 said:Damn, DA; this is fucking amazing!
Stuff this one up an editor's ass somewhere!
LOL! I just want to see their eyes bug out when they discover how good it feels to publish you.DeepAsleep said:Are you saying this poem is approved for rectums everywhere? Preparation DA?
Thanks, Fly.
~R
clutching_calliope said:I'm really just a sheep following the crowd, a wonderful 28 year old sheep. A lamb, pratically!