100 Words

[Black13]

Yo, babe, seriously... babe, I just kinda wanna like, hey, you know, it's just kinda like a thing, dude, that's just been, like, legit on the way to be, like, done. Check it, yo, I really think we should like, you know just kinda hey, dude, like totally do some, like, you know, kinda just like, right? Cause seriously yo, dig that thing like, legit totally...

He slides short of second base. Home team loses 4-2 in extra innings.

[Neonurotic]

Bada bing! Bump.

[Tzara]

I am part of a novel—or novella, actually—one of five thousand people who have a brief phrase tattooed somewhere on their body. Line us all up, we’re a story; scramble us, we’re a poem.

My phrase is under the pergola, (the comma, too!) rendered in forty point Bodoni. I know very little about the entire story, but know my sentence is I found the body under the pergola, eyes opened to constant rain. I think it’s a mystery.

I hope to meet my sentence-mates and line us all up for a photograph. Hoping body and eyes are girls!

[PandoraGlitters]

Somehow I went from 3 to 7. I am filling in the middle now, touring missed curricula. It is a long ride past parking lots of sestinas and triolets. Miles pass. From the bus, I see a guy waving. Buddy wears no enjambment—hell he's barely threaded. Buddy plants himself under the 100 mile marker and crosses the sky with flags, claiming the sand beyond for the Devil. If you want it, spit on it. It, not me. Me, you have to write or massage for. Oh reader, how strong are your hands? How active are your verbs? Step right up.

[UnderYourSpell]

Originally Posted by PandoraGlitters

Somehow I went from 3 to 7. I am filling in the middle now, touring missed curricula. It is a long ride past parking lots of sestinas and triolets. Miles pass. From the bus, I see a guy waving. Buddy wears no enjambment—hell he's barely threaded. Buddy plants himself under the 100 mile marker and crosses the sky with flags, claiming the sand beyond for the Devil. If you want it, spit on it. It, not me. Me, you have to write or massage for. Oh reader, how strong are your hands? How active are your verbs? Step right up.

I miss Kitty

[PandoraGlitters]

For UYS

Madame laughed at kitty's whine "Nylon catsuit make kitty sweaty." Madame tugged kitty's charm bracelet deftly from her belt, popping out a small silver razor blade. Bending kitty over her knee, Madame cut a heart-shaped flap, baring kitty's pink rosebud. Madame raised her hard thigh tilting kitty up for examination. Sudden fingers pushed in. Squirmy kitten purred intensely as Madame fingerkicked inside. Madame pulled out, degloved and slid a cold metal tube in place. A shiver skipped up kitty's spine. "Tell Percival you bring a message."

"Miaaow!" Yes, Ma'am. Shakily, kitty stood and preened until ready to strut to Percy.

[ninianne]

Sleep would help, but that would be too easy. So I sit up in the middle of the night, watching reruns and commercials for creams that guarantee orgasmic bliss that I don’t believe because of sheer annoyance factor. At some point, I must drift off, because the whine wakes me when the broadcast ends and I head to my bed to lie awake with my mind racing into strange dreams involving grad school orientation and lesbian sex and flying except I know that I’m dreaming and with the knowledge, I realize that I can’t move, and I’m falling. Into awake.

[mynameisben]

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one-hundred.

[Cindy_Trevor]

Your hands. My body. They are meant to meet.

Each nerve ending under my skin anticipates your touch. How will your hands feel on me? I've wanted them on me for so long. They're strong, capable, showing the passing years.

My body craves them. My flesh quivers as your rough, work-worn fingers part the edges of my blouse. Your palms smooth over my breasts, still not on me, soft cotton fabric a barrier as strong as a wall.

Your hands follow the cotton to my back, and they release the hooks.

At last, hands meet flesh. My skin rejoices.

[darkerdreamer]

My wife and I were discussing our gender-based views on body image.

She told me she doesn't "have to care, but I have to care just a little for you." Deserting thirty has its advantages.

She asks if I feel the same way, if I feel like there is a definite line where I believe her attraction for me will fade.

"I figure as a settled man you only have to worry when you can't see your dick, and that's mostly a superficial instinct." Right now my dick is only obstructed, I've got a good three inches to go.

[Tzara]

I remember the tapes—reel-to-reel in those days—where “Georges” asked his friend “Pierre” how to get to the library in the town they both lived in, or perhaps had just moved to, since they never seemed to know where things were. Où est notre école? one would ask, like an Ashton Kutcher character.

Dutifully, we conjugated verbs: je ferme, vous fermez, il ferme.

Danielle was très belle and French, or knew French, and I was striving to be cultured—even suave. Conjugating mightily, one day I said to her, Baise-moi.

She kicked me in les testicules and walked on.

[Tzara]

We stood nude in the open air, on a playfield marked, I thought, for lacrosse. At least the goals on either end were narrow—like they were soccer goals shrunk up tight as my nuts.

She looked at me, grinned, started to run.

There is nothing more beautiful than a woman (oh, baby, a naked woman) running across a field.

I ran after her, though I doubted I could catch her. My stride was longer, and she seemed sometimes to almost be in reach, almost seemed to want to stay in reach.

Finally, I caught her.

Ooh. Fade to black.

[Neonurotic]

A Snow Blind

The sun rises and it is chilly, teeth chatter, clack and clack, though I find it is worth the frosty wait. The first snow falls and I am pleased, warmed by the view. A plume of pleasure under my cold nose as the camera shutter goes click and click, catching every lacy flake. They melt on an iron rich land until the earth is just as cold. It is pink at first turning white as light. I am blind in all this bright, dazzled. I disappear in the storm, leaving behind red footprints quickly covered by a blanket of snow.

[Neonurotic]

Whorrible Story

"Vision Thing" plays on the radio while he tunes-up my Jag. He's crude, leering with one eye through a nicotine haze, telling me about Thai whores doing everything. He grins with sharp yellow teeth detailing every fucking thing in Bangkok, quite literally, banging cock. How things were in the Land of Smiles, that really the girl's happiness was all him. Then he, sons-of-bitches, slipping a wrench, bleeding redneck red. All I can do is agree with Sisters of Mercy's sing-song wail, it's a small world and it smells bad and wish the hell out of here… sha-la-la-la.

[PandoraGlitters]

I will not break the poem past fixing. Have no worries for poems are flexible things. They are even more flexible than you imagine in your earliest rubbery imaginings before you imposed term limits and expectations. I will not break the poem past understanding unless the dear reader is more stubborn or more stupid than water which manages to flow around the obvious rocks and haul most of what matters to the sea. You are neither stubborn nor stupid: you are the river. Bend the sun's rays and make them flow inside of you. Carry this poem to the sea.

[Tzara]

I noticed her when I walked into the store. Legs, mostly. Lama boots, no nylons. Not much up top. Nice hair. Long—not teased like most working girls.

A six-pack of Shiner Bock and a carton of Kools and I was ready to leave, but she said, “A beer and a smoke. That’s all. That’s all I want.

“Then you can fuck me.”

God. That’s what put Lily in my life—tobacco, alcohol, and sex. All my little failures lined up like the planets in the devil’s horoscope.

I married her, of course. But it didn’t work.

Remorse never does.

[bogusagain]

Stars in Pigalle

She was always a bad idea but bad ideas have a way of being irresistible until it is too late and events steamroller over you, which is precisely what she did in a bar in Pigalle. I could put it down to drink, I could put it down to being tired of life or I could put it down to the fact she had the hairy balls of a prop forward. You never get over a surprise like that, especially when you screech and embarrass her in front of her lipstick friends and she downs you with a left hook!

[HarryHill]

Max was not sure he wanted to stay long in the little east side bar; it was loud, crowded, and motherfuckingassholes of every persuasion and accent reduced the possibility of understanding conversations to nil. But, there were a couple of women that had mightyfineasses and were drunk enough not to take themselves too serious; so, he ordered a drink and kept his mouth shut.

Around two AM and many Delords later, he started chatting up one of the girls in spite of worring about his provincial speach, manners, or the chance of committing an idiotic gaffe and soon found out she was more interested in foreplay than faux pas.