all of a sudden passion suddenly

Status
Not open for further replies.
Model

I built a model
of my father
by the river's edge.
Watched the current
snatch it away,
colouring the water
a shade of black
as it collapsed.
 
how can I not
bring up the past
when you thought
that a man
loved you
for 15 years
when he just came
to your home
once a month
for a fuck,
and not only stained
your pretty sheets
with his dirty
fucking pecker,
but the window sill
from a crack pipe,
slept around,
flirted with
waitresses over dinner,
got married to someone else
and still came back for more?

::::breathe::::

all alone
for 10 painful years,
now he's back
"clean and sober"
a "free man"
and wants your forgiveness,
and i tell you
to keep your clothes on,
that you both
should be tested
for that government
induced disease
but the passion
was so oh oh oh.
"I couldn't resist!"

63 years old
well at least
you lived more
than half your life.
it wouldnt be bad
to get aids now.
:rolleyes:
 
He didn't think
eating oranges
could be so much fun.

Tired of cutting them up
on his own,
he asked me to do it.

There's no need to take off the peel
when we can make funny faces
by putting the slices between our teeth.

It gives us a reason
to floss once more
and windex the mirrors.
 
Mother finds her faith

She unlocks her shadow
from the trunk in the attic,
watching it descend
the stairs, go to her room,
sit at her table. Peeling
a tangerine left for it,
the girl watches her shadow
dissect each segment,
slowly slipping off its skin.
It cannot taste the acid,
only the flesh. Escorting
it back up the stairs,
she hands her shadow
the keys to the trunk,
compacts herself
and feels the lid shutting.
She remembers how it once
tasted, and her lips
start to wetten until she
has become dry.
 
this art is potentially deadly
and this god doesn't need
any favors
just a reminder, a remainder
maimed mankind
to the tune of ten million dollars
follow a strict closing
procedure, sweeping them out
saying they can't look anymore
but so many will never see
the corners of existance

put on the voodoo shoes
download a new ringtone
and never forget
this art is potentially deadly.
 
Posh Bird

she was a posh girl
who had drove up from the shires
in a frog eyed Austin Healy
perfectly groomed, a mannequin
that had just walked out of Harvey Nicholls
sniffing the air of the grim north.
up to see her brother at the university
and not to party, she insisted.
why was such a posh ass at a redbrick and not Oxbridge?
we sniped at each other for most of the evening
class envy and class superiority
threatening to break out into open warfare
but at some point drink and desire
won me round, I capitulated, became civilized
maybe it was just a change of tactics
I wanted a conquest, the thought
of doing some rich man’s daughter
perhaps it was my northern charm
or perhaps she couldn’t hold her drink
by the time we were on a mattress in the attic room
she had given up on dainty glasses of G&T
and was swigging from a bottle
‘There is no need to look so smug.’ she smirked.
the thrill of crossing ‘no man’s land’
of being floored in the enemy’s trench
as my hand slid up her leg, wondering
what sort of underwear posh birds wear
 
Suckling the TV helped create
shadows on my skull's walls.
I'd like to light a match
and burn them, creating new
candles with whatever is left.
 
sweet rita coolidge sang it to me when I was eight
maybe ten
"once the story's told, it can't help but grow old"
now she is out on the porch this morning in a freecycle bag marked "Lydia- hippielady42"
ready for pick up with Ringo and left over valentines
we give it away
I do not watch them drive up
do not listen for feet on my porch
I am tired of stories
new or old


remember when you had one
when they asked
what makes your mind work
baby where is the roadmap to your soul
god help us how long do we fall for these lines?

yes
the seduction
opening your story
button by button they swoon
in the swill of secrets
untill everyone has seen enough
naked on the pedastal alone
girl we have all been there
witches at the stake
flesh melted in fires of admiration
curiousity
could this one be different
neveralways
burn a different color flame
ash same wait for rain
it can't help but grow cold
 
Last edited:
I never went pecan picking with the natives
not sure how it is done beyond the googled A&M
agricultural pages suggesting we whack branches
or have 10 year olds throw various items and knock
them down

my son and I wait until it is almost dark
temperature below 90 we wait
until it almost feels like fall
we pretend these pecans are pumpkins or
rows of cortlandt, delicious, smith
I almost feel a chill
in the air no it is late september summer
even my parents won't brave this season
who knows if this is how it is done
sitting in the grass pocicle sticky fingers picking out the clean ones
without holes, cracks, mold
we are making it up
in this strange land
finding our own shortcuts down roads
that everyone calls by name
rabbit hollow inner loop leander but the signs
the signs we see are only numbers
we make it up
never having driven them in the backseat
windows down no
no we were transplanted
alone
in the front
here with outdated maps
distant neighbors
our roads are half a world away
leading to Webers farm
stauffers orchard
somewhere the leaves are orange, red, somewhere
hay wagons and hot cider no no not this cactus
pecan basket we make up our own
 
Mouth

The firework burn
made a mouth

on his right arm.
He liked it when

it picked up girls
for him, excused

his presence at
dinner, spoke all

the right lines.
Nobody looked

inside to expose
its rotting gums.
 
Voice Box

Dawn broke into the bathroom
where he was training his voice
box to imitate his dead wife.
He had been unsuccessful
for the previous six months,
hoping for one to stagger out
and settle like dusk on the surface
of his skin; ending the silence
he had worn for decades
with words not nothingness.
 
morning broke with a terse breeze
and messages clinging to whirling wind devils

now is the time
the time to gather seeds
time to braid corn silk and string husks
for cooking, later, later,
the wind spoke in rustles of leaves
and crackles of aged branches, firewood
for winter, though winter is not welcome here
not in my south, but the wind, like God
is patient, makes room for those who have none

she gathered baskets of leaves and presented them
at my feet, a promise that the soil would be tilled
again, and again, and spoke
as the cry of a newborn facing her first chill,
come let me wrap you in promises of spring,
in visions of lambs wool
snuggling tender skin



savor the warmth while you can, she whispers,
like the last bowl of potato soup
for, unlike the wind
potatoes make no promises
except a silent desire for salt
 
not everyone is going to like you, love you
adore you or even want to know you.
not everyone is like you, not everyone
needs you, wants you or wants to know you.

your cutesy gibberish reminds me
of middle school and the 13 year old whore
who met the one boy that didnt do whores
and you cried for a week
because he didnt want you
and then you went on to blame him, oh
there must be something wrong with him
it couldnt be me, couldnt be me

I dont need to be loved by you,
you know who,
I dont feel the need to stroke
your artificially inflated EGO, grow up
get a dog that will worship you
and never tell you that youre just too far
over the top, too flashy, too loud, too phony
for that one person
that found her way into your
"I just have to be worshipped, or I am not
happy" crowd.
 
Last edited:
fields

(o the graves of tallgrass, mounds of
long yellow hair ranged in the field)
this way the wind and the mouse came
this way the rat and the rabbit
make their trails, safe from the hawk
our round bowl of prairie, this single
acre, burned in the spring and bursting
with clover, with fleabane and ironweed
the circle most sacred created by deer trails
and bordering the path of the coyote
these open lanes we widen where deer
trample the tender mushrooms in passing
and the dogs run the bounds like guards
 
o love, treat the day well

o love, treat the day well
bring courtesy to it, offer it apples and
your simplest heart. This day is a child
untaught: you give it lessons with each motion
and every step brings a knowledge to the morning
and evening cannot be rewritten. And listening
after dark we find
the words of the aging day before sleep; only in quiet as we
drift toward childhood, toward waking, can we hear it.
Be gentle with the morning and the day be gentle

Love treat the day well, offer it flowers
Find your garden here in this afternoon’s eternity
All we have are lives, these days strung on the
tail of time, strung along this invisible thread
All we have is the day and its tutoring

Love I beg you treat the day gently, make it love you
Make it aware of your joy, present it
With your two hands full of gratitude.
 
Tribute

A bunch of tiger lillies,
spread out like an entrance
to a hidden grove,
was laid near the spot
where someone was killed
in a traffic accident
by Victoria Street. No-one
seemed to notice
a tree frog peering through
the space that had been
created, observing
silence.
 
we boil eggs by the half dozen
he eats only the whites
you eat only yolks
shells go to the snails
I will not bea mother who whines about taking what is left over
crusts and discarded toppings because it is a choice


he asks
have you been writing?
no...not in the past few weeks

too much on your mind?
not enough I suppose

we pencil appointments
we scramble in the new year
we start the game rolling and then sneak inside
after they are deep in enoughto not notice
mother's absence.

still already I miss them
mud and stick habitats and chalkprint fence rows
my pastel shows
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Back
Top