all of a sudden passion suddenly

[annaswirls]

-there is a site-
he tells me
while teasing out the feel
of the specific flavor of freak
I carried in my boots

-it’s called “literotica” have you
heardof it?

planted fingers pressing seed
grown in humus and peat

you say yes
yes I like that I do
not the rock soil sterility
that drove fathers into the city

curl in a little corner of my belly
when you were new
buds that could be wings
or limbs or fins
ontology unfolding
we keep our tails tucked on the inside
you will me to sink deep back in
re-emerge with gills
baby we did not used to need air

tonight in the phyla game
you be the fish
I will be monkey
no one will know
we are still
all spine and tail
candling the egg
changes the egg
no one knows
how we will energy
bits of shell
or aminos
or placenta
stuck to feather
and scale and hair and fur
are you ready to see
what we have become
this time out?

 

[Senna Jawa]

Another improvised non-tangia (but not half bad)

-

poeporndom

at a simple round table
thoughtful people around
and only a few witches
bang on the top

the useless blunt scissors
forgotten in the center
resonate each time
in an offensive high pitch tone

it's the holidays season and
the New Year time --
around the empty table
stupidity reeks of hostility
​

wh,
2020-01-18
​

-

 

[butters]

baby we did not used to need air

tonight in the phyla game
you be the fish
I will be monkey
no one will know
we are still
all spine and tail
candling the egg

all of it wonderful, anna, but these lines? dayumn... all spine and tail/candling the egg. i've never seen anyone manipulate language quite how you do

 

[Senna Jawa]

temporary post (Anna, either way will be fine)

Hello!

(without any prompt).

 

[butters]

the self-proclaimed 'owner' of the poetry forum narcissist just can't help himself; not only attacking me but the opinions of tzara and piscator, too.

temporary post (Anna, either way will be fine)
Anna, long time no see (I wander...). And where is the Wicked Eve and her many dildos? We are proud alumni of Wicked University, we are obliged to give the given topic justice. True, you gave us tour de force but we may ignore the puerile reactions to your poem as "Whew!" or "Blew me away". (If you've written about "101 highway", would there be similar reactions?)

Anna, say a single word (just you -- others can talk all they want ) and I will remove this post, no sweat, I will replace my note with just one word "Hello!" for the sake of the Lit-aesthetics. I am writing this note for the sake of good ol' days.

 

[butters]

tepid, not very passionate but that's down to the troll subject of my post

you just can't get the quality
like trolls of yesteryear
now a kerb-stomped narcissist
is back to be a drear

if only he were better
as good as self-believed
the "poetry" he posts to troll
might be well-conceived

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Anna welcome home, more later, unfortunately I have other fish to fry

 

[UnderYourSpell]

So many tell me that long distance love can't last,
yet here I sit and wait for the bit of you that's mine.
Stolen hours of bliss, still loving you, just as crazy
held over heels in love. Sure I know you're not perfect,
but my heart won't let you go, I don't have it anymore.
You stole it and tucked it safe within your own.

 

[annaswirls]

surely we must remember
this space?

last day at nudist camp
no one says
“Nice dress”

is shit on this thread still
allowed to be shit
on this thread
without threat of an upturned nose
or kick in the head
for guessing
Rose?

 

[Piscator]

First day at nudist camp
they said, "Nice tan lines"
but that can be cured.

 

[Angeline]

His smile
is a memory that floats
over this space
like the Cheshire cat
who disappears until
only his shine remains.

No edits. No phony
baloney, no telling
where passion strikes.
Who can judge that?

Sit on your roof
surrounded by Midwestern fields,
hold up a camera and a sign
says "poetry spoken here."
Good enough. Good night.

 

[Tzara]

Poem for Lori
(1953-2019)

I think it was your hips
that first caught my attention,
though your legs
would be close

if we just were counting physical attributes.
Those were, given our age,

the only thing we ever counted.
What I like to remember,
regardless of truth, is how
in the dark backseat of a '67 Pontiac
you caressed my most intimate parts, with

the tender incompetence
with which I also strived to touch you.
That it somehow satisfied us

speaks more to biology than skill
or tact.

That now I write this poem over your grave
means that I remember you,
young and beautiful, young
and desirable,

because we all were, sometime, a while ago.

 

[todski28]

A Journey Briefly Interrupted - RIL, HOLWLINGS


Hair spooled on a hand,
feet, body, and mind
angled at 60 degrees

on a cliff's edge,
the breeze, the breeze
is so skillfully impaired

heart and soul,
screaming jump, jump
jump ^ this may be your
last chance to hold

and did, but for what

trying to sort it out,
putting together pieces
of now

Lost, no not lost,
everything created in
these moments will
follow .....


there are times when the cliffs edge is nothing more
than an adagio of strings fluttering in the breeze
a connection across milliseconds
filaments of her hair are electricity
spooled at sharp angles
as if the bones of her scapula
are malformed wings
she curls a howling S
against the epicentre of broken

a breeze is a skilled charlatan
as it bids you leap
for faith has the same wings that defy gravity
and it tickles at the consciousness that it may attempt to grab you
with it's glassy essence
an ethereal mist that cries if only you had held on
to the ground
everything created in the free fall
is waiting to disappear
when everything is inverted
by a
s
u
d
d
e
n
stop

 

[todski28]

somewhere in the midst of night
the motion of emotions set to words is cracking through
the redundancy of the working class
where the cold comfort of the bottom of a glass
is a mother's hug
a lover's kiss
a dream fractionated into a nightmare that folds
like a paper people chain in a linked reality
that's doused in metho' and millimetres from a lit match
because the only warmth of heart is the burn of spirits
or heartburn from an over spiced curry
eaten at 2am when legs are rudderless bastards
and I can only lisp a shattered fury into the ether

there's a fury of frantic burning and vivid brush strokes
somewhere the broken, the meek the faint of heart
can see the fallen beauty amidst the brambles
built not on thoughtless habit of day to day grind
but built anew from the canvas

I can see the composition of a beautiful symphony
in the curves of woman
who wears a sultry smile above her bare chest
and I riddle a rhyming rhythm
as her mascara trickles
her gloaming eyes cut me deeper
than all the lovers I can no longer hold

 

[todski28]

I've seen trouble on the outside of the dirty glass
lipstick stains spear filament to a vandals light
a heart that held the essence of a violent clenched fists
curled around a small bud of romance

because lovers got to love

even if its a vain attempt to taste a rose petal because scent is
lost against the back drop of a broken nose

pick up bars and one night flashes of the erotic
cigarettes are breakfast and a litany of stained sheets
are all that remained of a crass coupling that wanted more than
wet patches but only got cold coffee and a tear stained letter
pleading against the dawn that

"it's not you it's me"

but you get good at the things you practice
and the lonely sluices down the drain
quickdraw pickup lines fire out like a gunslinger
unloading rounds until the chambers empty
into a desperate woman baring her heart
and the next night
I straight shot my lonely
with a wedge of lemon
and a lick of salt

but lovers gotta love

 

[todski28]

I lost the will to travel the world
collecting scraps of lost wisdom from ramshackle ruins
because I got a run on at the blackjack table
leaving all the slides I would have shown
as mere ethereal ghosts
things in the past
where hindsight is 20/20 making up the moves as you go

you know what I mean
the mythical thinking of what if
what if I was a fire that never went out, never budged an inch
a hiss from the crack in the sunburnt sidewalk
mid summer where every street corner is another possibility
you squandered

the sigh of those going to mindless jobs for their cheap bit of theatre
a bread and circuses affair
an orgy of intellectuals headed by a retarded child
that listens to the prayers of dogs in the breach of evening
each howl sends a shiver
a portent of the depths we've plumbed
an eye looking into a mirror only to see an abyss
of politicians talking double speak
where the dissonance is a resonant tone
something a half filled bagpipe wielded by an ADHD patient
hyped up on cocaine would yield

and we see the whispers of people on buses
praying for insanity to win out
because god is a wilful
capricious bastard
who would light his Cuban cigar
with the embers of a child
if we are shaped in his image
and so we lie in the gutter to die
because we already know how

 

[AmericanTrash]

Dayamn. Todski, I have no idea what all that meant but it sounded impressive and I'm willing to reread it. No matter what, it was tight and powerful.

 

[todski28]

Dayamn. Todski, I have no idea what all that meant but it sounded impressive and I'm willing to reread it. No matter what, it was tight and powerful.

I was thinking of calling it the power of rambling incoherence, I was reading Mein Kampf a poem by David Lerner, listening to Nine Inch Nails and my oldest daughter and middle son were playing black jack using lollies as currency, and somehow I wrote what ever the hell this is.... I have no answers for you other than that

 

[todski28]

We tiptoe about the house
hiding eggs that we know rabbits don’t lay
a tradition we don’t even know why we do anymore
a bygone relic of religious symbolism
and besides the joy in my children’s eyes
and the half spun truths and outright lies
we smile and giggle as we do the work of Easter
as it means to us

and I wonder what this giddy excitement
can teach them
about sharing and equal numbers
when they shoulder each other out the way
laughing and squabbling as they compete to get the most
in their baskets
my oldest daughter taking the hand of my youngest
guiding her to the arrows
and notes that reveal the next big surprise
and all she wants to do is eat the first egg she finds
meanwhile the boys boast and run
while our three year old chases after
yelling wait for me guys

And I know one day this innocence will end
like it did for out now 13year old
and I know it’s a lie
however there’s enough time in life for reality
to crush their fragility
for now
I’m happy with the magic

 

[Piscator]

We tiptoe about the house
hiding eggs that we know rabbits don’t lay
a tradition we don’t even know why we do anymore
a bygone relic of religious symbolism
and besides the joy in my children’s eyes
and the half spun truths and outright lies
we smile and giggle as we do the work of Easter
as it means to us

and I wonder what this giddy excitement
can teach them
about sharing and equal numbers
when they shoulder each other out the way
laughing and squabbling as they compete to get the most
in their baskets
my oldest daughter taking the hand of my youngest
guiding her to the arrows
and notes that reveal the next big surprise
and all she wants to do is eat the first egg she finds
meanwhile the boys boast and run
while our three year old chases after
yelling wait for me guys

And I know one day this innocence will end
like it did for out now 13year old
and I know it’s a lie
however there’s enough time in life for reality
to crush their fragility
for now
I’m happy with the magic

this is why we need a like button

 

[todski28]

riot, belligerent, exhausted


I've never felt exhaustion to the point
of anting to smell the flames of a riot
as I see calls for a revolution
belligerent self aggrandising
reactionaries screaming into the aether
about revolting
and I look through history with a semi critical eye
and the bodies mount up
stacked millions high
and I wonder what a revolution of todays magnitude would
really look like
where smalls arms fire is the equivalent of a cap gun
firing to start the 100m sprint
to our own desolation
I wonder if radiation
tastes like cancer

 

[butters]

re post 641


complex, beautiful, controlled writing, framing a wildfire of emotional punch

this is poetry, todski. your ability grows and grows. proud to read you. (of course, there's still room for line-break polishing/cutting the odd word but none of that mattered on first read-through. i was lost in the imagery.)

favourite parts for their power and originality:

that listens to the prayers of dogs in the breach of evening


because god is a wilful
capricious bastard
who would light his Cuban cigar
with the embers of a child
if we are shaped in his image
and so we lie in the gutter to die
because we already know how

 

[todski28]

re post 641


complex, beautiful, controlled writing, framing a wildfire of emotional punch

this is poetry, todski. your ability grows and grows. proud to read you. (of course, there's still room for line-break polishing/cutting the odd word but none of that mattered on first read-through. i was lost in the imagery.)

favourite parts for their power and originality:

Sometimes I wonder if some of those lines run off into vapid self indulgence of $2 words when it could be said simpler and other times I don’t even know what I’ve written until I’ve finished it’s still a strange business this writing shtick but if you’re happy to comment I’m happy for the acknowledgement.

Hope you guys are well and safe as can be

 

[Angeline]

this is why we need a like button

I agree. Lovely poem todski.

 

[todski28]

Draped in the scent of cheap booze and a scar spangled banner
of self recriminations
I rose from the ashes of my last hangover
an unboxed compass lost to wayward seas
that’s found the hidden place where all beauty hails from
it whispers a soft seduction
an echo of femininity
of wild passion
and a hint of salt
but concrete rivers and multi-coloured
vomit splattered pavements
are no place for tears

Between the plumes of smoke
and the soft click of a switchblade spring
is her rogue caress
it’s serpentine twisting my guts like a knot
tied by a veteran sailor
trying to ensure the anchor will hold to the ocean floor

as her allusions work through the cigar smoke
and spark like flint before striking the flame
she catches the eyes of temptation
and dares he hold her gaze
the allure of such a fragile creature
wrapped in desolate hunger
is enough to force the most brazen to stick to
furtive glances

she has darknes draped round her shoulders
as a minx scarf
wearing sin as a rich perfume
she sings for her destructive stranger
in a crooning siren song

sorrow has chosen the form of a woman
to tare men apart