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007 Challenge

2

09_Primavera_jpg.jpg


Tempera

It is never polite to desire
someone else's wife,
even when she's Botticelli's Spring.

Yet would I kill
to pluck and squeeze those many oranges
over her thin linen gown

if later I could suck the juice
from the damaged fabric.
I would tell no one. No one.


.
 
Dark Matter

My hands are pitted
with desire, or its excess,
and the blisters seem to sing

of how I grasp and cling
to you, of my unruliness,
and of the hiss that is the poem

of my exhaled love. I lie, sighing
beneath your vigor,
which swirls above me like a star

in some distant constellation
whose pull is more zodiacal
than gravity.


.
 
Risks of Metaphor

Fruit might be the most common,
as the wet and pliant skin
of grapes or cherries speak
of tongue's (or teeth's)
sensation. And pulp and sweet
work well, but tart,
though often accurate,
quite fails politically.
Move on.

Meat is just too base
to make it out our starting gate,
although I might wallow in its slippery drippings
like a feudal lord, lazing at his feast,
dazed with grease and gluttony.
Even if apt, this will not play
anyway like seduction.
Bang. It's dead.

OK, then—Flower, Bloom, or Bud.
The opening, the petals, the honeyed
scent all work, of course.
I will avoid "nectar," as cliché,
and as women are more savory than sweet,
but still I'm left with salads or odd things
where stems get caught in teeth,
and there might be pesticides,
which makes me shudder,
especially.

I could try something odd, like Rock,
which seems more me than her, or
Vacuum Cleaner, which doesn't work at all,
even when its accurate, or Linear Accelerator,
which she is, but isn't helpful
any more than would be love, which she
also, also is.

Perhaps what's wrong is metaphor,
disguising what I really think:
that I love her labia, her clitoris,
those centered things that make her She.

That I love her; hope she loves me.


.
 
Hazards of Poetry

Look, when you open up wide like that,
you're inviting something—
a bit of food, a Tootsie Pop,
some popcorn flipped off the back of a hand,
a ball gag. Something. The problem was
you'd just been reading Sharon Olds,
and is it my fault the only line I can remember
is buttocks, backs of the knees, the cock
in our mouth, ah the cock in our mouth?
Next time, try Billy Collins
and maybe I'll pick up the yard.


.
 
Tzara said:
Hazards of Poetry

Look, when you open up wide like that,
you're inviting something—
a bit of food, a Tootsie Pop,
some popcorn flipped off the back of a hand,
a ball gag. Something. The problem was
you'd just been reading Sharon Olds,
and is it my fault the only line I can remember
is buttocks, backs of the knees, the cock
in our mouth, ah the cock in our mouth?
Next time, try Billy Collins
and maybe I'll pick up the yard.


.
Click to expand...

Zzizzzng! One more - you done good Mr. T! I love 4 and this last one. :rose:
 
Tristesse2 said:
Zzizzzng! One more - you done good Mr. T! I love 4 and this last one. :rose:
Click to expand...
Why thank you, Ms. Handcuffs and Frilly Underwear. :)

I still need to write, I think, one more. And today, to make the time requirement.

Hmmm... handcuffs... frilly underwear...

Don't know. I'm getting mental images that are rather too, um, athletic to be lyric poetry. More story matériel. Explosive, in fact.

Maybe I should stop looking at that avatar, count to 30, and write a sonnet or something.

*grumble*
 
I think this is seven. And in time, actually.

Fast Food

I don't believe in holy,
except in how your skin
wraps a perfect skeleton

that might force my belief
in omniscience, since He knew
just how to drape your hips

along your femurs, to create those
yowza thighs I want
to bite and lick

like some Colonel Sanders'
Super Crispy Basket,
never mind the fries.

End of sentence.


.
 
Last edited:
:seven:

humbled by the work here;
with critical eye
tempering
the hasty tongue.


for

what is seven

but an invitation
to
contemplate?

the first construction project
came in
at budget
and
on time

seven days.

the true gift
is
the wonder
it
continues to generate.


humbled by the work here.

integrity;
it's own wonder-full construct,
tempers still
the hasty hand.
 
drown said:
:seven:

humbled by the work here;
with critical eye
tempering
the hasty tongue.


for

what is seven

but an invitation
to
contemplate?

the first construction project
came in
at budget
and
on time

seven days.

the true gift
is
the wonder
it
continues to generate.


humbled by the work here.

integrity;
it's own wonder-full construct,
tempers still
the hasty hand.
Click to expand...

Yay!!! I love your approach, one thru' seven, unique, as always. :kiss:
 
Tristesse2 said:
Yay!!! I love your approach, one thru' seven, unique, as always. :kiss:
Click to expand...

may this be taken as sarcasm... ?

i'm genuinely disappointed
by my drivel here;

truly inspired
by parts of other's...

there are images conjured by some contributors to this thread
that have rattled uncomfortably within me
for any one
of a myriad of entangled reasons...

storytelling - pure and clean.

a few of the offerings
are even complete...
which feeds the uncomfortable rattle
even more deliciously.
 
When she begins
she is tabula rasa,
too white to be jew,
too uncluttered to know herself,
too enlaced in expectation
because she is the first.
She will speak the tongues
of strangers, draw a map
of her mother's cell. She will
plan the garden, raise beans
and carrots beside seamed hands
and watchful eyes. And so
she is first pet, feted and
celebrated in small spaces.

Do you blame a dove
for loving the safety
of its cage?
 
2

New York Tendaberry

Her park bench slouch
with a cigarette, finger marked
in a volume of Delmore Schwartz,
is a cool I cannot imitate,
let alone inhabit. I want
to brush her skin like pages
flicked and riffled in some slim book
as if her cells could cling
sensibly, like religion
or arithmetic or energetic sweat
onto my naïveté, but I know
she's neither interested nor alone,
and my fingers are not long enough
to reach her coast, not even
adequate to scrawl some brief message
into her broken shells and sand.
 
Last edited:
3

Well Drink

There is no common alphabet
between us, other than limbs
and central parts. Perhaps
we could analyze the comics
like they meant something,
but the only thing I think of now
is your breasts and how I
part your exquisite legs
in another secret afternoon
where we share each other
like some greasy appetizers
served gratis at Happy Hour.

O, little footprints of distress,
I feel your retreat
back, back to respectability.

Fuck that, please, and cuddle
up to my irreligious thighs.
I am as open as alcohol,
welcoming shyness
as a property well-made
like a cocktail mixed
with the premium swill,
that labeled stuff, as if
assigning a name to desire
made all things good.

Which it doesn't, and why
we're always drunk before six:

for love is cheaper then—
just tonic swirled with ordinary gin.
 
4

Etiquette

I worry sometimes
that I have placed the fork
on the wrong side of your plate.

Yes, I know it's simply utensil,
and should not cause you nausea
or indecision.

But if you try to sip a steak with your spoon,
that's my fault,
and why I love you, love you, love you.
 
lubricant said:
Etiquette

I worry sometimes
that I have placed the fork
on the wrong side of your plate.

Yes, I know it's simply utensil,
and should not cause you nausea
or indecision.

But if you try to sip a steak with your spoon,
that's my fault,
and why I love you, love you, love you.
Click to expand...
I like it.
 
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