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Neo Classic

Variables Are Unknown

Mind and matter
is it really separate?
Descartes' principle
says that it is
I'm Gemini, twin is nature
dualism is essence
supernatural

Close your eyes and pretend

I know the variables
are unknown, but safe
Let it all fall
as nothing else matters

Imagination is the plane
where right brain
takes over and where I live

Cross over here
nothing is rational
all thoughts are random
It's cerebrally appealing
and the enigma is worth it
 
Mexican Monsoon - a boohoo triolet

Rashing in nether places are cause for certain madness.
I blame it all on humidity and a red dawn warning.
That's right as rain; I drip funk, lacking my ordain kindness.
Rashing in nether places are cause for certain madness;
is mine, itchy, bitchy me makes for downright meanness
Everyone says I will find relief too late, one later fall morning.
Rashing in nether places are cause for certain madness,
I blame it all on humidity and a red dawn warning.
 
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Crash Test Dummy

Over you, I feel the sheets are a road map
without seat belts and no speed limits.
All signs say, "dangerous curves ahead"
but caution into the wind, I race green lights,
find the marker on my forehead hits hard. Again.
 
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Burn

Black billow clouds steal our breath
we choke in the smoke
fall down on our knees
crawl to the clear
but we catch fire before
we are safe
safe
What is that really?
Where do we go?
I can tell you baby, sometimes
it's safer where you are
curled here
tucked under my chin
If not, at least we'll
 
Medicine Man

Perhaps what I give will be enough
for today, but will it be enough for tonight?
You need a concentrated concoction
one you can nip
whenever you are lacking

Home remedies start in the backyard
pick me in the morning
when the essence is strong as ever
Mash the roots, the leaves, the fruit
squeeze through a sieve
Discard the bits and pieces
if they matter not in this mix
Boil down, triple strength
thick and full body

This elixir is made of me
especially for you
Sip it down slow like a cordial
after dinner for it to last and 'it'
could be whatever you need of me
 
The Color Chocolate

She must get this from her mother
that cute nose wrinkle, turning down
beef and vegetables.
This born again carnivore,
farmer's market hound,
has them always on his plate
and ate before the milk is gone.

But fool her and her mother too,
she has chocolate cake and mousse
for breakfast, cups full of
sneaky beets and zucchini.
The pudding topping is
protein powder in disguise.

Ick, right? I know, but I have to.

It's all brown, she doesn't care
because it's all colored chocolate.
That's what I tell her and she cleans
her dish better than soap and water.
 
100 Words thread:


Creeps

Another one, another and another, earwigs, spiders, bugs I don't what the hell they are come from wherever in this old house. Spray and bomb and they survive. Last night some mutant did a flyby bite then I scratched the itch, woke up with a spider in my bed. And this isn't a lady euphemism; I mean a spider the same place the bloodsucker snacked on my leg. Was it the eight legged crawly or the vampire? The doc said, "tis the season", writing 'scrips for super steroid creams and antibiotics, blowing infections to kingdom come. Blam! Take that creeps!
 
UYS's challenge thread. She chose the word "dandruff" for me to write an erotic poem.



Woo

Dust or dandruff? It doesn't matter;
it's still the same imaginary for feigning
a flick to get close to you.
There's no pickup lines here,
I stick with a classic, the first move
I ever learned and still do.
It's a good one, although not my last.
That one ends in my bed for wine, dine
and woo, where you know you're mine.
 
More from the 30 in 30 thread:



Bees are Leaving

They should be buzzing flowers,
causing paranoia of their sting.
Instead, this April, it's wasps bombing
the eaves without the honey bees.

They should be starving, pollinating,
though they are leaving
their queen, leaving their hives.

To where, farmers don't know.

However, scientists do; it's not
global warming, bees like it warm.
It's the cellphones, humming
bee lullabies.

Cellphones let them sleep past Spring
and let them fly away.
Einstein said,
man would soon follow

but where? I know.
Dead.
 
Donor Remorse

Dreaming, lying here designing
your death,

each one more painful
than the one before,
though your reality is more.

Every breath is thick with tar,
is wasted—the devil within remains.

I can't tell you how happy that makes
me but still, the glimmer of humanity
gives sympathy.

Sorry.
I really do hope you get that lung.

Maybe the one you get will be
more than hope for yourself. Maybe
the donor will gift you remorse.



** he did get his donated lung, but later died with lung cancer in the new lung. i let go of much pain from childhood he caused and had forgiveness before his death then was able to grieve him.

 
. . .

I watch your lips move
in slow motion, forming vowels;
exquisite are the O's and U's.

Glimpse of tip of tongue
on the back of your teeth is more
inviting than your lipstick smile,
more than your hello.

I twitch,
stir.

I'm rude, already thinking
of the dirty words
you'll call, scratching exclamations
into my back while I grunt
ellipsis points, male satisfaction.
 
Fizz and Blow

Pop Rocks in soda pop,
hear the crackling then not.

Your mouth closed and you listened
to urban tales, secrets
and again, bubbling when I opened up.

It wasn't funny. I told you it wasn't funny.
OK, it was funny, though, I tried
not to think how disgusting it really was;
that sweet acid eating enamel.

Good oral hygiene morals, an aversion
to saliva, things that squeak against
my teeth kept the fun out of candy.

I wasn't allowed to be a kid after,
ya know after, after.

You were an idiot, drooling
grape fizz and now forever
you are an eternal moron

Heroin and cocaine makes speedballs
and they kill. That's not a myth,
that's fact. Everyone knows that.
 
Three Month Hardon

You glance at snippets in art magazines.
You tell me the heading and bylines,
tell me about other people's creativity;
all short work and museless.

The children are tucked between us,
snoring, dreaming two year-old
and three month old dreams, whatever they be.

On my side, turning pages, reading
Obstfeld's "Crafting Scenes".

It's a long way from where I'd rather be,
not doing what I want to be doing.
Though I do have enough imagination for
the both of us.

Each vignette is written much like
this one, but different.

Different, in that the books are closed,
the babes are sleeping elsewhere
and we are not. Ho, no we're not!

That's all right, lover.
I'm a patient man. I can wait forever
if need be, writing that endless
sex scene right here in this bed.
 
Loose

Left riders and right wings, she used
the wrong metaphor explaining
to me. I don't think of Presidential
candidates. I think of twisted leads,

malfunctioning EKGs, or hope
for them. The electrodes don't stick
on sweat and nerves put eels in my belly.

They squirm; shock loose the insides.
I think of no returned calls
and wonder why. Why?

Still I ask, as there is never
a reason for unnecessary worry.
It's just common courtesy
to not let a grown man shit his pants.
 
Le Boss à La Carte

The fatback is where all the flavors at,
she cuts out the oysters, disregarding
them like so much cartilage.

That is only tasty if you are serving
ham hocks and lima beans;
though we are not.

The pig on the table just writes,
or rather, better said, he steals paychecks,
frauds little old ladies out of their pensions.

Fascinating, fascinating.
I agree, while having cheeks
without the jowls; sautéed in butter
served with portabellos and asparagus.

Obviously, she does not know
her cuts and certainly has no taste.
However, she is my dessert,
crème brûlée and sucks good cock.
 
Memory Dump

Sometimes when I sit here, my comp. .uter talks to me. It says
that everything is all right, it is not paranoia. No one is out to get me.

I agree while pop. .ping Xanx, looking over my shoulder as virtual hardware
bur. .rows under my nailbeds into veins. It wires me up,
erases memo. .ries and makes room for a whole new platform.

Vista is such a pig, there is nothing left except an outdated bod. .y.
 
Brown

I cut it after a fraction
of an inch because of the lunatic
next door does his that way.

He does it to not be out done
and I do it because
I don't want to be a bad neighbor.

I'm always doing that,
not letting the baby grass grow.
I don't want to make
good on what dad said.

Be seen as lazy or ass-backward
with dead Fords and washing machines
on the front lawn.
Or worse, look dumb, not able
to run a John Deere.

I cut it short, until growing season
has passed. Some days
it's harder to push that mower
not because of the hills,

or how thick the lawn gets
after a Northwest rain. It's harder
when I see the the grass
turn green to brown to just dead.

I've killed it;
so much like everything else
in order to look good.
 
from the 007 Challenge thread:



Weeping

Biding grief, eventually fades into the tides.
Nevertheless, when I least expect it,
a wave brings it back where I'm still learning
how to swim. I nearly drown, nearly,
but I hold my breath, wading to land.
 
Voracious

These clouds are jagged teeth tearing holes
through the canopy. One ray of sun slips
by the canine and incisor. It is a spotlight,
warming, but I side step into the maw,
the overcast, squinting against brightness.

The storm hasn't passed, it's just getting
started and I'm just the appetizer.
 
A Last Breath

Is it courageous fighting to live or
is it found in embracing death?
I don't know. All I can say now
is he fought like hell, did everything
he could to save his life where others
would've given in, been submissive.
Although, he did everything
it was all still nothing in the end.


12.1.11
for c. i wrote this for you while you were dying. i've forgiven you, rest in peace.
 
Linger

We are but embers, wood and earth,
white sage burning.

Our leavings of a fire consumed,
an interim incense curling
fragrant in an empty room.

The sheets may be washed,
physically cleaned where no one
after us would see. Though they
would know we were there;

sex and smoke
always seems to linger.
 
Dead of Winter

Star glitter, cold, hard and mean lays
a colder blanket. She freezes
with one eye open, staring forever
while a crow stands sentinel
on snow covered-breasts.

The contrast of color and the lack of
would be striking all on its own,
but could never compare
to the ice queen.
She's whiter than snow

bleeding the reddest,
most precious jewels of monarchs.
She is a frozen beauty waiting
for the thaw that will never come.
The sun is shunned
and it's always winter here.
 
Six Inch Spike Fetish

Oh, bless you fashion police for allowing
six inch stilettos this year.
Although they should be out of style,
thank you for one more season.

They stack for long, long legs wrapping
around a filthy imagination,
taken home, seduced like a poet,
but fucked like a whore. ¹

She is a muse, ready and wet,
doesn't care the walls are paper,
she claws them open
like she does a man's back.

All the while, those long, long legs
have their hold, those dirty words
screaming on until the very end.

After that, there's only hope that stilettos
come back, are in again and again.



¹ "seduce me like a poet but fuck me like a whore" originally, annaswirls from all of a sudden passion suddenly thread.
 
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Charmed

We sit curled up on the sagging sofa
enfolded in arms and legs, watching
"Expecto Patronum!" and Harry saving
us all for the hundredth time.
She feeds me burned oatmeal cookies
since Dad still can't bake worth a damn,
but both having a sweet tooth, we eat them
anyway. With little girl giggles in my ears
and a haze of Johnson & Jonson head-to-toe,
I'm perfectly content with my best girl
until the spell lifts tomorrow, it's Monday.
 
Cold Snap

Next to you, the ice melts.
I get caught in your rain and find
I'm soluble, soul saturated,
lightsome for a moment.

A little truth to touch your skin,
then more, trust enough your life is mine
and mine is yours. Hearts interlaced,
an we are an infinite beat or so it seems.

It's not, it's been ephemeral all along.
I leave the womb-like happiness
running down your leg. Now confused,
it's winter again and I freeze.
 
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