LITEROTICA PODCAST
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

not sure how many words

Let's have a free write, off the hipster ~~
We can at least try, lol ~~



....



I cannot write without
the music. My heart beats - each pump
a step, a thought
a vision. Inspiring me, to dance.

Hair waving, body flows
lips smiling
as a bend - flows. Feline purrs
erupt. Egg shell white
teeth bared, to bite,
a pattern out. This dance floor

is bumpy. A ride on a back road
a rough stallion neighs
a gallop, flows
the words - simply

flow. This is writing. This is
home. A place I long for
when the early morn sunrise, smiles
and sips outta my cuppa. She knows,
like a mother

knows. This is the path. This
is the day. This is
what I was made for ....



...

I did try, lol ~

:rolleyes:
 
My Father Auditions for the Flying Wallendas

.

found a home . . .

.
 
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The Eastern Window

The Lilacs spring up
With lavender splashes
And flood the dooryard
With the opium of her fertile scent,

While the old woman, the gnarled spinster
Of the garden, fills her winter branches with
Leaves and Apple Blossoms.

Up above, 2 fat crows dance a hip hop drop,
Comedy and a jester all scrap for the first seeds
And the river forms a backdrop, all iced out and
Swollen.

Teeming with birth,
The members inherit their duties,
This theatre dazzles the eye
And my good fortune cannot be overstated.
 
Down The Shore

Bass drums in pillow scapes, marching style-- upright, muted by rolling breakers.And all of us,clammering into place-its a beach and our loafers are stuck and our medals hang upside down on rolled up uniforms, knee holes and cigarettes bulge. The Cymbal man lost his other to a rip tide.

ATTENTION I swung and my camera sideswiped that fucker Timoli and his gay clarinet. The wind blew up a mighty dune and we were nearing a clamity, we may be vaporized, and find ourselves back on benches or Lazy Boys.

A Boones Farm empty rolled into my ankle. Ben fell over to pick it up and all his Pall Mall's flipped in slow motion from his shirt pocket,into the water, drowned and poisinining saintly seaworms as we speak.

Sr. Veracruz Rises, all 4'10" of him rises before us, fully regailed in spankin new coverall waders -, his baton, his head adorned, his head barely above water.

Remember children, we must make the water come to us, allow it to invelop you completely. Life is nothing more than intonation, finding the note wherever
it befalls,

We must begin the begin again, so in steady 3-4, downtown chopstick, GO-

"Hot and Sour soup.its the only color activity that rewards the fealess, if only for a wink of an eye."

On chair- coffee drained, river laughing at me gently as it rolls by. "In the wink of eye"
The music had ended, but the gnomic counting pleases as waters amd wave.
 
skeedrag yur yankee ass out heres to wheri I can get a look it.

Out of the shadow,
Towards the back of the quanset,
I seen that albbino with bloody eyes,
And shit if he didnt tuck that sumbitch up under his
ears and just as he faked to be struminn a stradyvarius with a limp catail he grabbed up, off the floor, and no more left a mess of motor oil droplets
On that carzy machine he was fixin to make sqeel,
When that miserable dark man plugged it in just in time for the corner cut saw
to lurch and then come to a bonecruching slow stop in the musicians shoulder and under arm.

The safety crew now is happy to be left with the magic of beating 2 sticks together, maybe rub em together make music ,dance. click sparks on your sticky sweat....
And start another accidental firestorm, from malibu to Mayasia
But its quitiin time somewher,
And we got fuel to burn.
And roads to drive.
 
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Dust jumps as I approxamate the landing of my foot,
Good clean dirty dust,
A shade darker than my wore out shoe.
There's a few of us out here making little clouds.

A thorny thisle about 4 feet high
Has arms and shoulders
And he's locked on to
A dance, or a point, whichever.

The dogs breathe the only human words
In this autopilot barn door spectacle,
Vocabulary eyes, a look at the ground or to the sky.

The sky cracks open, violins and violas,
Proof perfect of culture,
And the harmony lays upon itself and
Makes a million sounds
Become one.

The blue behind it all
Is of no known maker,
Azured and silvered,
It beds down stars while it
Burns daylight and plays the wind.
 
Before a Rain

Woopsy. Double post. But wotta poem, huh? My bf is one helluva dharma bum. :)


just a bum...
 
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Reading this

I see you reading this at your breakfast,
toast crumbs
on a blue tablecloth,
empty eggshells gaping,
on your third cup of coffee
with sun leaning in the window.
You’re oblivious of the day,
reading this.

I see you reading this on the train,
elbows tucked in, pinned
under the glare of the large person beside you.
Perhaps it rains,
speed whipping the drops
into a frenzied horizontal race
across the dusty window
as you read this.

I see you reading this in a hotel room
in a foreign city.
The bed looks hard,
you and the shabby generic furniture
sag wearily.
An air conditioner wheezes in the window
and traffic noises rise from below.
You stand in the dingy light
reading this.

I see you reading this on a beach
lying on sand, propped on an elbow,
gentle surf hissing in the distance.
Children laugh and
you look up as some run by,
remembering.
You are smiling
reading this.

I see you reading this in our haven,
your head resting on my lap.
A hand plays with my hair
the other holds the paper.
Firelight reflects on low beams
and your face,
you hold the paper just so,
reading this.
 
Oak barrels configured as if a comedic pyramid is the goal,
Surely the whole thing will topple, bounce down to street level,
The running of the bulls but with whiskey barrell's sets forth
And the percussion is in place, for now the push is vaguely tempermental,

I chance a stop at his apartment, as the din whirls around, but he is not home, loco boys ticks off 22 shells skyward, the firing line is way too late.

I grab a wash of ferns and pack the sweatlodge,
Foirgotten for enternity the plans, the ideas, the fancy show.


Old straggler sneaks in with roman candles,
We begin to talk until the river swallows all the fairy dust,


We sit and blow smokerings quietly,
While back toward town there is a singing

CREEEE Creee the black hawks speak and then disappear.
 
Does anyone know of a goood online word counter please? I have to write a review of not less that 200 words
 
the world is green today,
thick with easy breathin air,
get rested lay down on the green,
and the mositure bubbles up
on shoulders, elbows and knees.

a respit from dreams that leave me tired,
the is the easiest breathing,
one foot then the other,
each step green and thick, down where

Kestrels and Riverhawk buzz for swallows and yellow perch,
fog burnin off, the riffle over the shallow rock
gives way to the dark, lifeless pool, swirls at noontime
Green not black.

All my footsteps trample on green thickets and brambles,
soft and rested.
Green on red plays in my head.
I remember a car on blocks, gold olds 88 on
Silver driveways
covered in green.
 
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warming up

Stipe still has flamethrower pipes
Breathing gasoline here in the
Bonfire of my sanity,
While big John struggles outside with the ladder
Scraping siding, mumblin to himself.

The overcast hangs like Burma,
tropical New England
With sad red roofs and empty golf courses,
Dumpster man nails it ever time.

Pedal steel and foot drum,
Money laying in dissaray
Choices to make
Directions to fake

In green places wearing
Post industrial faces,
The mississipian
The calender of the sun.


farrar has farslung
Terrior Blues
Kaddish for the father,
His days are numbered
his stuff to be divided,
I'll take the transistor memory

The riverflood,
The house floating
Back to the ocean.
Sand under Burma skies,
Kite flying on Kennedy beaches,
Circled round to hear the hews

Ill take the transistor memory
Give the rest to my sisters.









g
 
eagleyez said:
Stipe still has flamethrower pipes
Breathing gasoline here in the
Bonfire of my sanity,
While big John struggles outside with the ladder
Scraping siding, mumblin to himself.

The overcast hangs like Burma,
tropical New England
With sad red roofs and empty golf courses,
Dumpster man nails it ever time.

Pedal steel and foot drum,
Money laying in dissaray
Choices to make
Directions to fake

In green places wearing
Post industrial faces,
The mississipian
The calender of the sun.


farrar has farslung
Terrior Blues
Kaddish for the father,
His days are numbered
his stuff to be divided,
I'll take the transistor memory

The riverflood,
The house floating
Back to the ocean.
Sand under Burma skies,
Kite flying on Kennedy beaches,
Circled round to hear the hews

Ill take the transistor memory
Give the rest to my sisters.









g
Click to expand...

Sad, but good my dearest. I understand it. :heart:
 
emergency room slam

Its the Haynes Boys now
But back then it was daydreaming
Hendrix jamming with Coltrane,
Reverb'd and gentle,
And I was diggin it as a foil
For the bleachblonde building i was in,
Birdcalls from precarious rooms and
The guy dancing with the mop,
Central healthcare-emergency, oh emergency.

Now I was there for a predicament, the recurrence
of the predicament, and was quite jarred to be off schedule
for something that more n likely will resolve itself,
But Im 53 and despise submitting myself to beepers and creepers, but they tell
me I ought, so I did...

All be it-
I spy a New York magazine among the piles of RV guides and gallstone manuals, Swine flu instructions and menus from Luk Choy's.

Inside I find the final poems of John Updyke, as he wrote them in a cancer ward somewhere in Cambridge. As a fellow New Englander Ive read a bit of Updyke, and especially enjoy his poetry, the thing he is least known for in larger circles. I always found his poems gruff and scuffed by a hand that drove a fencepost a fair bit, or handled ropes on sails with a beer in it and a friend in tow.

I read and I read and I read- too much description just right, i never though of that, the gift of another day, surprises one as pencil legs find the floor. All hail Valium. Metastitis er how you spell it. I water the page and read and read
And think of Lou Reed's "Sword of Damoc les," siiittin in a hard chair-lightening
Isotopes meant to kill ya to cure ya,

I read all of them, Hendrix and Coltrane long since went out for smokes, and soon they would call my name, and i think of you, finally, your face and girlish fear and absolute knowing time had come for you.

I moved like a thief, carrying my pawltry misery in my pocket and out passed the guard.

I healed up ok and Updyke died.
If i could only recall what Jimmy and John were on about,
 
Driving east I saw the glory
streams through pewter cloud
tinted with precious and dressed
in shimmer. Electrum stairway
for enlightened souls touch
the upturned faces waiting
for their turn to climb
to heaven.

The prairie waits in sullen heat
oppressed suppression
dancing mirages on a highway
polished by a million treads
as shades of history flash past.

At last to find breezes against
the shore that fill the sail and move
valiant skiffs even though the season
plays out short and furious
to become fall then winter
and only promise spring.
 
In the first smoke of autumn
trees wear skirts as if
they're timid girls hiding
secret bony knees
and knobby elbows.
Then everything will fall

to the open mouths
where the frost heaves gape.
This is how rugosa roses
will press themselves among
brittle leaves, tinged pink-brown
and tumble, tumble away.

Dance cards and cutting contests,
matchbooks, bits of ribbon blown
become the sky, blue grosgrain
and cloistered trompe l'oeil
white with cold, pure breath
to promise the numb silver
season, diamond hard
and glittering. But this is the first

smoke of autumn with its fey
cats-eye moon, pale curved
and set in the windowframe.
We are luminous in moonlight,
shining and fragile we mirror
each other, hands clasped,
knees rubbing among cotton
and eiderdown we kiss kiss
kiss and flutter, wavery waving
curtains like flags wearing the night.
 
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