007 Challenge

006

In 40 minutes I'll submit the backside
left hand to blacklit stamp
admission to a wordless room.
Maybe differently languaged.
throbs and brush pasts morse
code beads at first. Inevitably,
summer wins. We sheen.
Reggae base commands all hips
to sway or figure eight
or grind tomorrow's coffee
dark and fine.

007

Uberpool collects her next
post prenatal check-up. First
she phoned her sister, told
her five-year old tomorrow
promised a new board game.
Of course I loved her, then,
library card and all. Next stop
for me the dentist. For her,
the projects where she promises her
daughter tomorrow.

You've been busy, gurl!

Have I posted this one before?

I ADMIT

By JCStreet © 2018

I admit it’s
easy
to stray in here, to
slip and stagger by the wayside,
slipping into mischievous chitchat, what’s
needed is a stern schoolmistress

who brooks no slips no
banter of this kind, she

is wearing:

watered silk blouse open
just enough to flash the lacy
bodice of her slip her
hair in a bun pulled
back so severely that it
tightens her face her
hard intellectual face her
beautiful face with the
gold-rimmed glasses – down a little
on her prim nose a

long cotton skirt falling
to her sensible shoes, what
color is it – is it lavender with vague
flowers
occulted by distance and under
underneath she wears a small white
brassiere
not to lift but
to hide the nubbing nipple from her
outer topography, she

wears a white
garter belt with eight
straps to hold
her silk seamed stockings
under the loose silk panties from
waist almost to stocking tops, I

kneel down and bury
my face
on a velvet Ottoman
while she flexes her cane while
she slips down my
white intimates the
turbid air is warning of her strike the
pain is pure white light
behind the scrunched eyes if
I were a girl I would
kick up my right foot coltishly and

AGAIN!

Oh My, the sting and
slight of it, the
blinding light of it and then

THWACK!

again and
after pleading
after the 12th stroke with
blood hot enough to sizzle the griddle she
relents
and stands back shaking,
her hair flung loose by the beating her
face red-glistened and wanton, stands
back
a drizzle of saliva down her lip she
quivers and makes a small
unwonted sound as I
slowly rise and turn to face
this . . . this

transmogrification, gravitas
now a tattered coat as I
rise and turn to face and
move to her she

drops the cane her eyes
are those of the deer at the watering place, turning
to the spear, she

shivers and quivers and
mewls a little
fearing her joy I
touch a palpen finger to her eyelid she
shrinks as though lightning struck and I

cup her cheeks and move them
closer to my quick breath I
touch my pursed lips to her forehead and
touch her hair
fleshing out its half fullness to a rout of silk a
rout of silk it is
lovely in its graceful fall to the white
silk of her blouse which
I open slightly with a pushing out of
one button and
lightly kiss the lovely
curve
of neck rounding into shoulder, shoulder so
white, the map
of light and shadow on her
bony shoulder and my fingers
behind her neck burrowing
into her loose-wild hair like
small feral animals
delight from her lips a harsh cry then
a smaller moan I

trace my smooth nails
over her scalp—scratching
in a calculated tease and
kiss again
her eyelids and her nose
delicately and again
this time her cheeks and again her lovely neck and again

I kiss

now one hand on her spine moving her
moving her to the place
where she would be, the
place she most fears her
eyes closing her
breathing sterterous,
harsh and uncontrolled her
body quivering like the canary
swallowed by the cat and

with one more button parted
I trace my lips to the red
flush of her chest slathering
my slick-thick tongue
cell by cell
across the chart of her rising
pulse this

undressing is a languor thing so
timeless in its slow wend so
unremembering so
exquisite and
with time there will be
time and time as
the sun floats down to thistle Hell in the late
of the day, as
the flowers fold their arms to sleep,
as the nightingale
greets the nightling sky, there is
time she

is contained now my
arms constrain her to a tighter place and I
feel her being
softening for surrender I

grasp her flung-wild hair with a harsh hand and
seal
her lips to my hot breath she
asks no quarter I
possess her with my mouth and tongue driving
like Rommel perhaps
deeper into secret Egypt in the slick-glisten
of a desert night with
no retreat envisaged with
only the prize in view she

knows now
that she is possessed it
is not her doing she
worries no longer she
is not responsible she
knows now for whom
the whistling cane
strikes quivering flesh she
knows now she is

bent backward now
sniffy-breathing and
relenting to the relentless
caress
of insistent fingers
down the slim silk of her spine down the

first boyish curve
of her hips the
tight round swelling
under her skirt and now
she quivers and moans with rising
interest with

less shyly returned kisses
to my own cheeks to my own
eyelids to my
own and

slowly words are forming . . . yes . . . oh
oh yes
oh

parting her blouse pushing it down
her slim white arms and
over her thin wrists it
parachutes down, teasing

the white child straps off her shoulders and
then the light entrancing lick
from the lovely round
to the edge and
down her upper arm I

step back slightly to raise her arm and lick
the virgin
skin inside her elbow I
sense there the faint
Tantalus the
faint Tantalus of the scent she touched
to her pulsing wrist
for an instant in the first rise
of the day and then

contain her again in my arms with a long
shuddering kiss I
am in fear that my knees will not hold that
I will fall from the sweetness the
sweetness of this love-thing the
sweetness of her I
fear

and then
she whispers and all is
once more well she
whispers “darling” whispers
and moves her ins to my outs her
convexities to my
concavities her
sweet mouth again onto mine her
fingers lilting on my face her
breath now
zephyr-light and warm her
tongue as slick as olives in the grove
of falling day she

whispers now more intimately she
savours the
freedom of surrender, it is not her
not her who
wantonly unbelts me the
small light hairs on my thighs hackling
hackling with a tickle, she

releases me with an impious
pull downward of my under-clothing which
stings a little over the russet
quiver of my caned flesh and

I have already teased down her
cotton skirt
past the soft silk of her delicates but

not to be outdone in this
deconstruction she
harshly tears
the shirt from my back the buttons’


pleasant pitter-patter on the parquet seems
only the sound of almonds—thrown to birds I

will devour her now
devour her with my colonizing tongue
devour her with fingers
that I can detach and leave to wander
so fulsomely that she believes me
multiple beings believes me

to be many tongues and mouths about her
as we fret and twist in the last
divesting of garments though
we leave the stockings and the garters
in their lovely places and now

our cannibal kisses
consume the liquid in our mouths
displace it on our bodies on the now
nubbled pinkness of her breasts
on the now quivering belly and this is the moment
in our love when
all becomes inchoate shall we

move to the velvet sofa, collapse on the bear-rug, maneuver
to the oaken table shall I simply
lift her to my belly and plunge
into the seeding flower which has opened in the love light
but no

instead we
stumble to the table I bend her
bend her backward and
thumbs behind her knees I
fold them to her cheeks

feed carnally on the mounds and groves, the
interstices and declivities the
tiny spring which magically erupts
from the garden
of her flowerbox, her

maidenly heart and she is
touching and stroking me now she
has found my measure she
grows confident she
grows knowing now as the breast-pulsing blood
quivers her and

when we unite and meld I
do not quite know the moment but
we were sudden-melded and then it was all changed I
brought her face up to mine and while
my grasp was cruel—pulling her into my thrust my
kiss was kind my
kiss was a wandering minstrel of delights across her face a
poem to her lips it was
so tender now
as though we were two, half
human and half beast my kiss
belied the carnage down below the
slick-slapping belly sweat the
cruel grasp of my fingernails on her round flesh the
counterpoint
of sonata and gavotte for I

now murmured endearments to my love I
now told her of my care I
now held her in close regard and worshipped
the lovely outlines of her face, worshipped
with light surprising kisses and light licks light
licks to her eyelids, her perfumed ear, lightly-blown
breath against her lovely face she was
now lovely to me
all in the moment the
endless moment yet

all below was turmoil and thrashing and
suddenly
we could no longer lightly dance
against each others faces we
could no longer hold back the grunts and harsh cries the
moaning sobs the cries that would bring
authority rushing to the door
crashing with nightsticks to
restrain the murder within but

this was no murder she
was risen from the torpor of her life
the dull round of her days, she was

where she would be

-30-

I want to see this stuff

cherries_on_snow said:

Deserts don't sustain
grassy narratives. Unbruised
sand won't answer
who crossed, where walked,
what said, when came,
how left.

Deserts remember only wet.
Last rain. Last blood.

Click to expand...

in print

as a PBS Newshour vignette

on a Times Square scrolling billboard

towed behind a light aircraft above Daytona Beach

quoted in THE ATLANTIC

I want to see this stuff, written in my ear by a wet tongue

Lick

I want to see her poems
in print
as a PBS Newshour vignette
on a Times Square scrolling billboard
towed behind a light aircraft above Daytona Beach
quoted in THE ATLANTIC

I want to see her stuff, written in my ear. by a wet tongue

-30-
__________________

JCSTREET said:

I want to see her poems
in print
as a PBS Newshour vignette
on a Times Square scrolling billboard
towed behind a light aircraft above Daytona Beach
quoted in THE ATLANTIC

I want to see her stuff, written in my ear. by a wet tongue

-30-
__________________

Click to expand...

---%---<@

Yeah

cherries_on_snow said:

---%---<@

Click to expand...

I can feel that

A WEE BOMB 150605

By JCStreet (c) 2018

It lifts sudden
pressure on the feet, as though
one is in a continental drift, a suddenshift

then

all glass windows
finefrost on floors

a sudden silence. then
RUC sergeant
“is everyone alright?”

“Aye, rightly.”

I was in the attic, the
ageing window just blew open
without breaking, I still had half a bottle
of John Powers
“three swallows” Irish whisky so

at least

I had something to come home to

-30-

I love reading your poems, JC.

(blush)

cherries_on_snow said:

I love reading your poems, JC.

Click to expand...

(shoves hands into jean pockets)

(scuffs Docksiders in the dirt)

(stares vacuously into the middle distance)

In the busy
busy, the dashes between
dots I worry.
Answer. Please
be well.

cherries_on_snow said:

In the busy
busy, the dashes between
dots I worry.
Answer. Please
be well.

Click to expand...

Inspiring

chris2c4u said:

Inspiring

Click to expand...

Do tell.

Tomorrow Ramadan
feasts and fetes
strength against hunger
even in America
where hunger is ravenous
metaphor.

Hungry mall walkers.
Hungry youtubers.
Hungry cheats
alternatively called
Republicans.

Today I told a man from Yemen
School is closed tomorrow
due to a religious holiday.
Our holiday? He was incredulous.

Then he gave thanks to Trump.
DeBlasio, I muttered, and then
two Americans nodded at one
another and smiled.

cherries_on_snow said:

Do tell.

Click to expand...

I edited your sparse text. I think I can see its ribs.

chris2c4u said:

I edited your sparse text. I think I can see its ribs.

Click to expand...

Show me.

cherries_on_snow said:

Show me.

Click to expand...

In the dashes
between dots
I worry
Answer please
be well

I was talking about how ideas inspire with some people today. Let ideas out there and they'll just transmute

Ahh ok. Very good. Thanks, Chris.

cherries_on_snow said:

Ahh ok. Very good. Thanks, Chris.

Click to expand...

The oblique mind of the omnivorous poet: I was also inspired by thinking about radio operators in WWII France working for the resistance.

chris2c4u said:

In the dashes
between dots
I worry
Answer please
be well

I was talking about how ideas inspire with some people today. Let ideas out there and they'll just transmute

Click to expand...

All of us stand on bones.

cherries_on_snow said:

All of us stand on bones.

Click to expand...

Where would we be without 'em?

Please build me a reorientation
alarm. One which tells the day
and year first,
then headlines mated like socks.
The perfect alarm launches me with one
robotic pat across the sill. I need it.
I require a search engine with dance shoes
fleeter than dream and coffee equipped.
Black. No sugar. No cream.

chris2c4u said:

Where would we be without 'em?

Click to expand...

Wouldn't have a leg to stand on!

cherries_on_snow said:

Wouldn't have a leg to stand on!

Click to expand...

See this is what I like about these intellectual threads

This is why

There are five partitioned seats.
Two are empty. I pass over the first
spot next to a woman full on singing.
Mouth round! Flapping a lacy fan!
Oh, honey. I passed all that
up for 2 feet of quieter. Then
enter the pouty teenage boy.
He sits. Singing lady stops mid-note,
turns and appraises him. She asks
slouch boy what is wrong?
How was his day? Is he
moving up or held back?
"As the mother of three sons,"
was her diploma. "Don't
be a follower." She rolled out
More and more starmaps for the boy
until, somehow,
in what followed, he was her son
but listening until the train.
Maybe he faked it. Either way,
we were better, after.