writing live

You pluck my falling flowers
that I might bloom again,
but never will I fully fruit
dropped petals, nectar, pain....

dark storms swirl
sucking sucking sucking
where's my light?

stand before the blast
i can't contain it
not my place
instead i'll open my arms
let it rush through me -

even this won't take my light
it burns
it burns

acid contrails crost my mind
whipped barbed-wire on the wind
grit all flung with force in eyes

i weather it all
and when the broken clouds, all ript
are blown away as chaos calms
i'll lift my head and
somehow i'll still smile

a different smile

for sorrows leave their mark
and leave me cold

there's this soupy grey sea
in front of me
somewhere out there
someone's drowning
is it me?

i'd use your words
to smite this rock
command the sea to part
but guess what?
it doesn't listen

erm...? Yeah.

The warehouse is a place
of men dirt swear words cuts.
here, it's all the same thing.

this is how bad lies start:
On the dock, over cigarettes,
"Man this one time, I..."
No, you didn't.

this is how good warehouse lies start:
"Man, I know this guy..."

Everyone knows a guy.
the army badass buddy
the eats more pussy than cervical cancer,
don't let him near your wives
(sistersdaughtersfriendswithvaginas)
like Don Cassafrickennova Juan or
some other tragic European knight-figure
except it's us busy tilting
at handcarts and none of it's anything but sore feet
to me.

We drive there in the dark
never watch the sun rise,
smoke cigarettes and complain about
joints, bills, girlfriends, wives,
"I go to the bathroom and shake hands
with the unemployed," I am friends
with the unemployable,
training takes ten days
to learn a shelving system that runs
A100 to Z601, my hands are a dirty joke
with no punchline but fists I can't do anything
but laugh at, a little, although I use the whole of them
to punch the clock.

lunchbreak, mcdonalds,
i am filth, boots to roots.
my coworkers pretend i am a hobo.
i smoke cigarettes and mumble to myself.
i pretend i am a hobo, pretend
i am cutting badswears into the back of the person
standing in front of me, with my boxcutter.
the coworkers pretend they're giving me handouts
and a woman in the line next to me gives me a dollar,
too and I take it because she is the most beautiful thing
i will see all day
for the price of getting laughed at, eyeballed
sneered at, and asked not to smoke in the building
i eat for free. It's nothing, again,
just sore feet, to me.

At three pm, sunrays bounce like
(badswears)
gravel, pounding yellow rain
it's been so cold
it hurts to get warm
they gather around the buttcan for the
day's ass end break
and everyone knows a guy who's
going to get some beers, after work
("This guy!" Ha-ha-ha,)
circling wolves, the air smells:
cigarettes butted in coffeecups rotted
in mouths that haven't seen kindness
since that faggot they punched out
at the bar saturday night turned the other cheek
none of them knew it was jesus,
but me, and it's just my sore feet (and me), swearing dirt
into cuts, like men are supposed to.

somebody smote them a love song
on a yellow painted canvas
that gives them an excuse to spread smilies
right across their faces, as if they're forced smiles
holding back those wretched God, why us?
thoughts behind their gritting, grinding teeth.
they wear the smile masks
that don't hide the elevenses between the brows
nor the suddenly wet eye corners,
nor do they hold back the mumbles of discontent -
those sideways looks that are the spark of jealousy.
they wear Crocs to help them bounce back
to a sterile unchanging pace, paint
their nails as if to halt the swing
of even the moon.

My first post, please be kind!


Naked again we writhe and squirm
and gasp and grab and spoon.
All awkward; bodies smooshing and
slapping and making all the sounds
of fighting between the sheets.

My eyes water when I crack my head
on the bedpost
when I reach for the "juice".
The bottle's almost empty
as I shake it down and whap my lover
in the chest with the crimped end of the tube.
That is so gonna leave a mark!

All the pornos make this so easy;
all the romantic movies make it soft.
Romance book romeos make it look so graceful.
Real life is so hard!

In real life, sex is an aching desperate pastime,
a violent meeting of mind and body,
whisker burn and skin burn and even sheet burn
where he grind my ass into the mattress.
Sweat stinging my eyes as my "classically trained" soprano deepens and husks out of my lungs as my body twists and pulls and reaches toward the final crescendo.

And when we're done I hurt.

Bet that keeps the neighbours awake!

,,,,,

Pardon me for asking but is that stiff boxes? If it's not I beg your pardon and wish I could do all that my house is sinking under books etc

UnderYourSpell said:

Pardon me for asking but is that stiff boxes? If it's not I beg your pardon and wish I could do all that my house is sinking under books etc

Click to expand...

Yes it is/was

Thank you

Gosh you are clever now everyone will wonder what I was whiffling on about !

UnderYourSpell said:

Bet that keeps the neighbours awake!

Click to expand...

Sometimes they ask if we need help.

Ha ha ! One time when I was in a lot of pain and my husband had called for an ambulance the neighbours knocked on the door to find out what the screaming was they thought he was murdering me!

I always want to tell them, "could you run down to the shops and grab some KY warming lotion, a pack of clothespins and some peanut butter?" but I restrain myself...

I think I want to save that poem and mess with it.

There are so many rude thoughts dashing thru my mind concerning peanut butter but I too will restrain myself ..... oh drat it no I won't ... better peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth than .....

sick

waterlogged hillsides loom over frail thoughts
suck air through a reed, feet sunk in lake-mud
jittery scum flecks skimmed from the surplus
compression, the bends in drowning of roots
the scald of a lava-flow shimmers and rises
hallucinate mirrors and rivers of dust
still moments of clarity, cool as oasis
such scum-sucking sickness

oh fuck
this also sucks

sophieloves said:

sick

waterlogged hillsides loom over frail thoughts
suck air through a reed, feet sunk in lake-mud
jittery scum flecks skimmed from the surplus
compression, the bends in drowning of roots
the scald of a lava-flow shimmers and rises
hallucinate mirrors and rivers of dust
still moments of clarity, cool as oasis
such scum-sucking sickness

oh fuck
this also sucks

Click to expand...

Bosh! Does not suck!

CicatrixESP said:

Bosh! Does not suck!

Click to expand...

my favourite poet-person how lovely to see you back!

for d to the iona

I walk on indifferent honesty, or
on all fours when three isn't enough,
I love you, too, I'm an idiot,
but honestly so. I'll call you
whatever I want.

Honest: You have brown eyes
Honest: You also have blue eyes
Honest: I lie about things that are unimportant
No, really,
Honest: Your eyes are green,
they're my favorite color,
I love you, too.

Catching up on this thread.
There's some damn fine work going on in here.
DeepAsleep: the piece "the warehouse is a place" is phenomenal.
I especially like:


my hands are a dirty joke
with no punchline but fists I can't do anything
but laugh at, a little, although I use the whole of them
to punch the clock.


and

none of them knew it was jesus,
but me, and it's just my sore feet (and me), swearing dirt
into cuts, like men are supposed to.

most excellent.

bijou

This face is as harrowing as the pores that dot it,
Squeezing sweat like children in double time
As callouses smell like milk on my fingers,

I could smash this mask, let it go, be free
Drop the drink and smash the half empty bottle in front of me,
I may as well lisp speeches to congressman,
While I pick up their hats,
And wonder whether Nietzsche would do it like that

Wise Blood

Flannery O'Connor
had very bad teeth, wore catseye glasses,
and, oh, lipstick that was 50s red.

She was "a girl who started with a gift"
(that's from some preface), southern,
and then she was just dead. Like 39.

And, well, dead is dead.
Somehow, I'd still like to pull her hair
and fuck her, slowly,

while she could cite immortal lines
from her life's oeuvre. Like this one:
The grandmother

didn't want to go to Florida.
How could she so easily scream, while
I had my calm way with her?