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"To keep the review thread clean..."

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UnderYourSpell said:
Is Psoriasis something to be put in poetry now alongside bloated goats bodies?
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Yes!

The Mephitic City of Anon

Sure, putting psoriasis in the company of bloated goats is unflattering, maybe insulting. I realize that it bothered you and that's why you didn't really comment on the poem. You were too offended by the poetic psoriasis to do so. Honestly, I do understand, but I bet the poet didn't mean to insult anyone.

What I'm really wondering, UYS, is what should be off limits? Should poets handle psoriasis, suicide, death, racism, etc. with kid gloves? I prefer not to be cruel with my poetry and I prefer not to read poems that are too vicious, but I do believe in freedom of speech. And you had the freedom to make your comment and I had the freedom to make mine.

By the way, I think you are a sweet and tender soul. :rose:
 
It's the context that bothers me having lived with a sufferer (and yes they do suffer) I damn well know how upset he would have been to have seen it but as he won't I will shout out about it for him. I see it as unkind and uncalled for whatever freedom of speech the poet may have ..... oh and thankyou for the compliment but this sweetie has teeth when it comes to defending her loved ones!
 
Dearest Wicked One and Yummy Mango Jamison--

A giant thank you, times 4, for mentioning my poems today. And an apology as well, they were not meant to appear at the same time. Something clogged up the gateway it seems, and i came out as a new poem hog.

I truly appreciate everyone who took the time to read and great big hugs to those who took the extra time to comment. I will fix that "newbie" flub at next edit. But, the reading of the poems, That is what it's about to me, being read, that gives me a feeling of immortality, in a strange way I know my poems will be here long after I am gone even if it is just as a faint memory that reminds someone of something and they can't exactly touch upon it. A byte of an NJ poem lodged in a brain, somewhere.

I couldn't help but think that last night as I went through the Bug Day thread and saw Rybka's post there. I sure do miss that ol curmudgeon. I really do. And on his avatar it says he is swimming the cyber sea...isn't that the truth now! I can just imagine him, cyber- alive, critiquing poems at will.

since I have been here, I have seen the departure of several poets and writer's whom I admired. Rybka was one of them.

thanks again you guys, for your time and patience and utterly kind words about stuff I barely recognized as my work when I found it in an old file a few days ago.

No rain underwater was one of those, and there are about a dozen more, my alter-ego must have written them when I was "out".

:heart:
 
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Thanks to Jami-san for filling the reviewer slot on Friday. Isn't it great to find a treat waiting on the lists fellow reviewers? I love when I get to admire the works of my favourite poets on my review day; it's kind of like I'm the first to read them <grin=wicked+evil> and I do like coming first. </grin>

BTW J.W. I have read your posted poems but I am stoned on ultra-strong codiene right now, so I'll try to gather some thoughts later.
 
WickedEve said:
I had a dream. My ex came to my house looking for a book -- not sure of the title. He was no longer gaunt, like when he died. He told me that he was spending all his money on paradise -- for his widow. "But she still won't have sex with me." It was just like him to waste his money. Then he told me that he lived in his car that he kept parked in his parents' driveway. He had to push it to work -- a job where he wasn't really doing what he wanted to do: rat research. He was always dreaming big. Then there came a flood and, for a moment, I thought about sex. He kissed me; I worried about herpes. It was best that he left before I woke.

My anxiety wears a dead ex's skin, and Hugo makes me anxious.

I saw a snake skin, hanging from a wetland tree. It was all tail and head, draped over a limb. "Where's the snake?" We checked the tree, looking higher, worrying that something would fall down around the back of our necks. For so many years there were slither dreams -- before the dead-man ones. I got so close to that pale, dry skin. Of course, I was armed with my shooter. Behind the lens, I'm a Calamity, a Starr.

Hugo wears a snake skin and, sometimes, I go into camera mode -- without the camera. I touch him and fuck him -- from a safe distance. Click. Of course, my own skin is disturbed. It is neurotic, not exotic, smooth-pocked with perversion. It's a deceptively suicidal shade. I do, at least, understand our skins.

I wanted to return to the wetlands, and take it down from the branch, and put it in the trunk of Hugo's Honda. And because of that desire, that dreadful fascination... well, he would do anything for me -- except shed his skin.
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I want to hear this, with some sort of music in the background.

Compelling.
 
WickedEve said:
I had a dream. My ex came to my house looking for a book -- not sure of the title. He was no longer gaunt, like when he died. He told me that he was spending all his money on paradise -- for his widow. "But she still won't have sex with me." It was just like him to waste his money. Then he told me that he lived in his car that he kept parked in his parents' driveway. He had to push it to work -- a job where he wasn't really doing what he wanted to do: rat research. He was always dreaming big. Then there came a flood and, for a moment, I thought about sex. He kissed me; I worried about herpes. It was best that he left before I woke.

My anxiety wears a dead ex's skin, and Hugo makes me anxious.

I saw a snake skin, hanging from a wetland tree. It was all tail and head, draped over a limb. "Where's the snake?" We checked the tree, looking higher, worrying that something would fall down around the back of our necks. For so many years there were slither dreams -- before the dead-man ones. I got so close to that pale, dry skin. Of course, I was armed with my shooter. Behind the lens, I'm a Calamity, a Starr.

Hugo wears a snake skin and, sometimes, I go into camera mode -- without the camera. I touch him and fuck him -- from a safe distance. Click. Of course, my own skin is disturbed. It is neurotic, not exotic, smooth-pocked with perversion. It's a deceptively suicidal shade. I do, at least, understand our skins.

I wanted to return to the wetlands, and take it down from the branch, and put it in the trunk of Hugo's Honda. And because of that desire, that dreadful fascination... well, he would do anything for me -- except shed his skin.
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Don't lose this post, Eve. It's a really (really) good prose poem. Imo, of course. :)
 
WickedEve said:
Talent seepage? Yeah, it can be embarrassing on the subway.
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It's best not to seep anything on the subway. Talent, body fluids, smiles, eye contact. No seepin is good. Seepage on/near trains leads to strange encounters. Did I ever tell you about the man who looked like a werewolf who chased me through Penn Station in NYC? Thank heavens I lost him. I was afraid he'd chase me all the way back to Jersey. He was seeping madness. And scariness.
 
Angeline said:
It's best not to seep anything on the subway. Talent, body fluids, smiles, eye contact. No seepin is good. Seepage on/near trains leads to strange encounters. Did I ever tell you about the man who looked like a werewolf who chased me through Penn Station in NYC? Thank heavens I lost him. I was afraid he'd chase me all the way back to Jersey. He was seeping madness. And scariness.
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So, if he had been less hairy, would you have bought him coffee? :D
 
WickedEve said:
Almost forgot to thank you for the comment. Really interesting suggestion!
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Welcome. I was understating my opinion, by the way. Not kidding when I said it was compelling, and there are a few other superlatives that I find appropriate.

Really, really dug that post.
 
Yes, I am afraid whatever rapture there was
I've missed it. For me it is all cogs and brooms
here on earth. And lovely pools of talent
to step in. Thanks, Eve.
 
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