all of a sudden passion suddenly

[corndog_]

Originally Posted by Tzara

Happymealius

I met a traveler from an antic land
Who said: "The patty seems to be of stone,
The bun uncrumbly. And the fries! Oh, man!
Some punk, whose clownish visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of gold command
Us that his fry cooks well our passions read,
We that survive, stuffed with these lifeless things:
The hand that cooked them and our heartburn fed.
And on the colored box these words appear:
'My name is Ron Mcdonaldus, King of Pangs:
Look on your lunch, obese ones, and despair!'
Untouched, the food remains without decay.
E'en dogs won't touch this meal. 'S houndless. We stare--
The desiccated meat matures. Beware!

[beep] "You want falafel with that?"

[Palba_Noruda]

Power below the heart
button below the tits
punch below the belt

Eyes ears soul
vertebrae sacs
clear throat
and swallow drink

deep breaths
through the nose
through the mouth

close your eyes and see
the feeling is beyond reach

deep breaths
through the nose
through the mouth

stretch the belly with air
feel the heat of hands
fear is in you
from you mind
to your spine

to the oval of your soul
fear is in you

deep breaths
through the nose
through the mouth

feel fear in you
see it from a distance
hold it in your hands
and throw
like you're
pitching water from
a sinking boat

deep breaths
heart beats
through the nose
through the mouth

pulse your heart
outward away from
your body like sound

soften your edges

pulse your heart
outward away from you

but if you're pulsing out
what's pulsing in?

[Tzara]

Originally Posted by corndog_

[beep] "You want falafel with that?"

Do you want some Angus today?


I made the mistake of trying to grab a quick lunch at McD's the other day. Apparently this is their new catch phrase.

What's funny about is that it comes after "Is that everything?"

Aaahh! Robot culture!

[The_Fool]

So...
What passion becomes you today?
I seem to have lost mine.
Like a solitary sock in a drawer,
seeking it's misplaced, mishandled twin
I'm slightly flustered
and not sure what step to take.
But since it is the one black pair,
that simply means
the black slacks,
black shoes
are of no use to me.
Once could try to pass
with dark blue,
but even if no one else could see,
I would know.
So give basic black a pass
means no proper grieving.
I'm not going to the funeral
wearing blue socks.

[The_Fool]

either glad or mad
maybe not so much mad
as sad
as the younger brother
slouched upon the couch
hat camouflaged by greasy hair
shamble coat gray
smelling of stale beer
and old cigarettes
even when just washed
no need for pity
just look at his steady-state stare
not home
distinctive sound
of a beer can tab
and the first slurp
drown out the mumbling television
seeking gifts for god
early in the morning
or perhaps mad
as a screeching voice
attempts to penetrate his malaise
half-full
half-empty
missile thrown her way
thumps against the wall and slides
to the floor
distinctive sound
of a beer can tab
and the first slurp
drown out the mumbling television

[butters]

the lines of your poem that i've quoted below are the ones that move my mind the most, especially ... especially ... 'from your mind/to your spine//to the oval of your soul/fear is in you'

amazing lines!

Originally Posted by Palba_Noruda

deep breaths
through the nose
through the mouth

stretch the belly with air
feel the heat of hands
fear is in you
from your mind
to your spine

to the oval of your soul
fear is in you

pulse your heart
outward away from
your body like sound

soften your edges

[Palba_Noruda]

Aw thanks, buddy.
This evening reminds me
of my friend on the couch.

His white socks don't
match his shoes.

I know he'd like a beer,
but I don't drink.
I know he'd like to blow me,
but I don't do that,
not on a first date.

And besides,
I don't think
that he knows
that he wants
to blow me

It's not a date,
not really.
I just got him
to stop over
for a bit. To
sit and chill
and talk about
something from work.

I have the power there.
The knowledge. The budget.

But he's got what I lack.
The passion. The desire.

He's good enough, but
he needs my help.
I want to help him.

I service him, and
it's damn satisfying.

It's so hard to get people
to do things on my terms.

I don't want to go get drunk,
I want to sit and chill and
talk about this project

and of course we got done
and the conversation spun

and became less focused
and I showed him some things

and we talked about the condition
of politics and the world, what
with the elections coming up and all

and I even got a little excited
raised my voice and was acting
kinda goofy

I wonder, if I were a recovering sex addict
would I get off on this? On this conversation?
This moment of unexpected, unguarded intimacy?
My getting off on servicing him?
Would I consider this a conversational blow job?

[Tzara]

Special Topics in the Philosophy of Science

Perhaps there is no beauty in the rise
of my body as you walk toward the shower.
I mean, of course, it's physical. Perhaps
any unclothed woman would see
my obvious interest. I like to think
that's debatable, but then
the only naked woman here is you
and I'm not, well, very hypothetical right now.


.

[greenmountaineer]

Originally Posted by Tzara

Special Topics in the Philosophy of Science

Perhaps there is no beauty in the rise
of my body as you walk toward the shower.
I mean, of course, it's physical. Perhaps
any unclothed woman would see
my obvious interest. I like to think
that's debatable, but then
the only naked woman here is you
and I'm not, well, very hypothetical right now.


.

Liked it. (Subtitle could have been "Homo Erectus.")

[Tristesse2]

Originally Posted by greenmountaineer

Liked it. (Subtitle could have been "Homo Erectus.")

and again I say

[greenmountaineer]

He would not harvest to the edge of fields
To profit his last will and testament,
But contemplated hunger in the men
And women there at dusk, ashamed or not,
Who maybe once took all there was in life,
A crooked turnpike to felicity,
Or so he thought before he said good night.

“There are no coupons for fresh vegetables,”
He said to no one in particular,
Except the heavens. Then he went to bed.

[Palba_Noruda]

I walk to the shower
contemplating my hunger

I turn on the radio:
Starting Over

My shorts rise
like a flag staff

They always do when
her man Johnny sings

The low sun peeks in
the kitchen window

Charms me as it
does this time of year

The way a chip charms
a cookie, right buddy?

[DrFootsieTickles]

Spritely nimble fit and young
tied up tight and gets the tongue

[champagne1982]

Do- do you remember me?
I was that girl you kissed an afternoon
away with under the bridge.
Remember? I don't remember
your name, I think it was Bill or maybe...
Oh! John! Your name is John!

And even though your name slips
in and out of my memory I remember
that kiss. It was a KISS
that stirrred feelings better left
to adults and not a child, ill-
prepared to understand just what in hell
all that good sensation meant.

Do you remember how I seemed to fit
every curve and puffy nippled softness
against you and how hard, oh my god
how hard you grew and I remember,
I remember that my stomach did flip flops
at the thought of how fucking good
you felt and if it would be alright to fuck you.

Do- do you know that I would have, too.
But we were under the bridge and it rained
and you had to drive back to Toronto
and but for that, you would have been
my first. Instead, I had a different
lover and I wished that he could have made
me feel that kiss like you did. I remember
your kiss, John and yes, I remember you.

[fridayam]

Originally Posted by champagne1982

Do- do you remember me?
I was that girl you kissed an afternoon
away with under the bridge.
Remember? I don't remember
your name, I think it was Bill or maybe...
Oh! John! Your name is John!

And even though your name slips
in and out of my memory I remember
that kiss. It was a KISS
that stirrred feelings better left
to adults and not a child, ill-
prepared to understand just what in hell
all that good sensation meant.

Do you remember how I seemed to fit
every curve and puffy nippled softness
against you and how hard, oh my god
how hard you grew and I remember,
I remember that my stomach did flip flops
at the thought of how fucking good
you felt and if it would be alright to fuck you.

Do- do you know that I would have, too.
But we were under the bridge and it rained
and you had to drive back to Toronto
and but for that, you would have been
my first. Instead, I had a different
lover and I wished that he could have made
me feel that kiss like you did. I remember
your kiss, John and yes, I remember you.

I adore this--it smacks so of real life and real emotion. I love the stutter too. Thank you.

[fridayam]

The Anti-Beatitudes

Curséd are the nice, the ones who
don’t get in your way, who
open doors and don’t expect
a thankyou.
Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who
don’t dart up their hands, or butt in, who
see a space but don’t see themselves
inside it.
Curséd are the generous, those who
don’t take credit but give it and get
nothing in return but
forgetfulness.
Curséd are the myrmidons, the hard
workers, the al-desko set:
someone else enjoyed
their lunchtime.
Curséd are those with talent but no balls
watching those with balls but
no talent rise
effortlessly above them.
Curséd are those whose work gets farther away
as the roads get clogged
earlier and later until jam going meets
jam coming back.
Curséd are the worriers who
churn in their hearts’ syrupy valves
the clogging cares
of others.
Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,
each feeling the other neglectful while
neither has anything like
a life.
Curséd are the children who wait at the gate
for a late parent whose tears, heard
through the wall, will
eviscerate their youth.
And above all curséd are the people whose
goodness drips off your life like
beads of rain off an
impermeable.

[champagne1982]

Originally Posted by fridayam

I adore this--it smacks so of real life and real emotion. I love the stutter too. Thank you.

Thank you! and psst .. I wrote it exactly how I was thinking at the time.. his name came back to me in a revelation. I was thinking about leaving his real name out but now I'm glad I didn't. And yeah.. that bridge and that kiss are true things in my treasure chest of memories...
Again. I'm glad I gave you this poem. Thanks for letting me know how you liked it.

[Maria2394]

Originally Posted by fridayam

The Anti-Beatitudes

Curséd are the nice, the ones who
don’t get in your way, who
open doors and don’t expect
a thankyou.
Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who
don’t dart up their hands, or butt in, who
see a space but don’t see themselves
inside it.
Curséd are the generous, those who
don’t take credit but give it and get
nothing in return but
forgetfulness.
Curséd are the myrmidons, the hard
workers, the al-desko set:
someone else enjoyed
their lunchtime.
Curséd are those with talent but no balls
watching those with balls but
no talent rise
effortlessly above them.
Curséd are those whose work gets farther away
as the roads get clogged
earlier and later until jam going meets
jam coming back.
Curséd are the worriers who
churn in their hearts’ syrupy valves
the clogging cares
of others.
Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,
each feeling the other neglectful while
neither has anything like
a life.
Curséd are the children who wait at the gate
for a late parent whose tears, heard
through the wall, will
eviscerate their youth.
And above all curséd are the people whose
goodness drips off your life like
beads of rain off an
impermeable.

Steve!! this is beyond good.

Curséd are those with talent but no balls
watching those with balls but
no talent rise

[fridayam]

Thank you, Maria. That is a very kind comment. I'm glad you liked the poem. x

[tracyk859]

Thanks for the post. Hi guys, Im a newbie. Nice to join this forum.

[vrosej10]

Originally Posted by fridayam

The Anti-Beatitudes

Curséd are the nice, the ones who
don’t get in your way, who
open doors and don’t expect
a thankyou.
Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who
don’t dart up their hands, or butt in, who
see a space but don’t see themselves
inside it.
Curséd are the generous, those who
don’t take credit but give it and get
nothing in return but
forgetfulness.
Curséd are the myrmidons, the hard
workers, the al-desko set:
someone else enjoyed
their lunchtime.
Curséd are those with talent but no balls
watching those with balls but
no talent rise
effortlessly above them.
Curséd are those whose work gets farther away
as the roads get clogged
earlier and later until jam going meets
jam coming back.
Curséd are the worriers who
churn in their hearts’ syrupy valves
the clogging cares
of others.
Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,
each feeling the other neglectful while
neither has anything like
a life.
Curséd are the children who wait at the gate
for a late parent whose tears, heard
through the wall, will
eviscerate their youth.
And above all curséd are the people whose
goodness drips off your life like
beads of rain off an
impermeable.

Great stuff, well written. You basically described my mother and me before I grew a set.

[twelveoone]

Originally Posted by fridayam

The Anti-Beatitudes

Curséd are the nice, the ones who
don’t get in your way, who
open doors and don’t expect
a thankyou.
Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who
don’t dart up their hands, or butt in, who
see a space but don’t see themselves
inside it.
Curséd are the generous, those who
don’t take credit but give it and get
nothing in return but
forgetfulness.
Curséd are the myrmidons, the hard
workers, the al-desko set:
someone else enjoyed
their lunchtime.
Curséd are those with talent but no balls
watching those with balls but
no talent rise
effortlessly above them.
Curséd are those whose work gets farther away
as the roads get clogged
earlier and later until jam going meets
jam coming back.
Curséd are the worriers who
churn in their hearts’ syrupy valves
the clogging cares
of others.
Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,
each feeling the other neglectful while
neither has anything like
a life.
Curséd are the children who wait at the gate
for a late parent whose tears, heard
through the wall, will
eviscerate their youth.
And above all curséd are the people whose
goodness drips off your life like
beads of rain off an
impermeable.

I saw this over in new poems, I didn't leave a comment, for fear of misinterpretation.

A reader of Baudelaire? It has that feel.

[fridayam]

Originally Posted by twelveoone

I saw this over in new poems, I didn't leave a comment, for fear of misinterpretation.

A reader of Baudelaire? It has that feel.

Thank you. I haven't read Baudelaire since my teens, but who knows where the ghosts of old poems hide in the brain.

I didn't understand why you feared misinterpretation

[Palba_Noruda]

Don't Steve
this is exactly
the kind of voice
the memories liked

The bridge
smacked of
Toronto; turnpike
coupons; deep grieving

The world
elections black
button slacks
eyes swimming

I met John tonight
he taught me like
he always does
I followed his
voice

I followed his breath
is sex the only
thing that
matters

What about that
part of you
deep deep
inside

That part that
is not your
body

Not your mind;
that is hidden
inside your
intuition

That part can
write about
something
besides
sex

That part can
give something
besides lust
at a party

Is it a force field
is it an emanation
is it detachment
is it an attitude

why do people read
why do people write
why do people talk
why do people breath

why do people put their
hands to their mouths
why do people flirt
and look into each
other's eyes

why do people spout
phatic nonsense

i won my nephew's blessing
pin the tail on the donkey

i gave birth to a poem
it barely even hurt

who dares to critique
who dares to hurt
my feelings

Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot
and Billy Collins
sat in a circle
and jerked
each other
off

They loved the bird porn
all three of them
south paws
by the way

If you lose even
one more word

truth beauty and
justice are beyond
the human ability
to articulate fully
said he

the radio dj said
who's listening
who's listening
why do i even
care

how do i find
the path to
my soul

why can't i
do it at
will

for example
i can make
an erection
nearly at
will

nearly. it's
a crude
example
but there
it is

but why can't
i find that
part hidden
deep inside
my intuition

[vrosej10]

There is fruit on this tree so sweet
And high and ripe and I can almost smell it
I seek to reap these distant treasures
But they are just out of my reach and I pine
Ignoring the fine peaches within my grasp
Their juices just as likely to give me orgasmic pleasure
And I sit under the tree and sulk,
Still feeling cheated
Even when a perfect peach plops on my head
And I will not eat it.