My heart aches and a drowsy numbness o'er my senses steals, but
it's only the nitroglycerine
Eve the Wicked probes a dilemma endemic to America--discontented wives--in
I need simplicity,
life pre-cut, ready to wear.
Busy mornings, no problem.
Closet holds skirt, blouse,
and shoes--all attached.
combo on the dresser.
Downstairs, dressed children,
with cereal bowls, full;
walked dog curled on a rug;
husband with permanent smile,
paycheck in hand.
At night, turn down the sheets,
fold the tabs on my nightie--
paper doll ready to fuck,
that I never cut along the lines
of an orgasm.
how much of this discontent has surfaced since Tim Berners-Lee invented the
world wide web is difficult to calculate--but well it serves the wandering
cyber-male - with a quick grin--a ready wit - and a slow hand - or a
cyber-female - whispering in the night to a newfound "sister"
Eve also reminds of of bumps on the head--steaks on black eyes and other intimations
of the thousand natural shocks to which flesh is heir with
doors and drawers
fingers and toes
no part of you is safe
keep them open
or keep them closed
run away when
doors and drawers
are in slamming motion
(OUCH Eve - I'm smarting already)
put down the Co-Cola(r) and take a bathroom break before reading
wanton wonton's things to do on sunday when your l
the nic should be 'nuff to tell us that this person's wit is off-the-wall,
outside the envelope, beyond the frame, not even on the forward-looking-infrared (FLIR)
radar screen in front of the REO in the big F-14 Tomcat (FLy Navy)
but the poet sucks us in -lambs to the laughter by starting with a few banal lines which--in subsequent context--become
more and more
I don't think I can excerpt it because every line depends on subsequent and
previous lines - like the button that depends on that piece of thread which
is sticking out an inch from your shirt--you want to pull it don't you, you
haven't the patience to get a pair of scissors and cut it off so you're
gonna pull it (sigh)
(where did the button go? - it rolled under the couch I think)
(things to do on a Sunday when your I)
eat black grapes
read a health book
walk to the bus stop and back just for the heck of it
call your mother
write a letter (but not to him)
finish the black grapes
write another letter (this time to him)
eat the soup with oat cakes
re-write the letter to him
go out on the porch, wishing you had a ciggie
tear up the letter to him
dial the first 4 digits of his phone number
eat the rest of the oat cakes
stand on your head for 5 minutes (new perspective)
make a cup of coffee
call your sister
drink the coffee cold
dial the first 5 digits of his number
tape the pieces of the letter back together
eat a tangerine
eat a Hershey's bar (almonds)
call your best friend (but she's busy)
dial the first 6 digits...
disconnect the phone
soak in a tub with epsom salt
reconnect the phone
try to read a magazine in bed
skip the article on the "other woman"
answer the phone after 3 rings
he's downstairs while his wife is in the shower
he says he loves you
he wants to see you on friday
the whole day
you pretend to check your calender
you say you'll call him at work tomorrow
he says goodbye and hangs up in a hurry
you try to sleep
you see images of him
making love to her
he says it has become mechanical
that it's nothing close to what you two do together
you believe it
but you wish you could have mechanical sex too sometimes
you have a glass of water
take a last pee
and finally fall asleep
HOKAY - we've seen poems that make us hard (males)
or moistly receptive (females) - we've seen poems that make our eyes burn
with tears (not rears Tatha) - we've seen poems that make our hearts melt
is something new - it's familiarity--it's burning irony so apparently
disingenuously presented - I think I'm gonna tape it up on my wall
unfortunately I hadn't been warned to put aside the Co'Cola(r) and take
a pee break so I'm all skanky now
(who is wanton wonton and why is she trying to kill me?)
The mighty RazzRajen givs us some pleasant relief (pick up those Cokes again)
which for those of us who were denied a classical education means
Enough there? (or perhaps idiomatically - Enough Already)
a Back glanced look,
poets painters prosers
craftsmen crafters crofters
I'd rather be on
the windswept moor
I couldn't agree more--it's hard to beat the swelling of the heart when it
is the only sound one can hear in the far, bleak places.
Is that drool I see,
crusted flaked slowly
The color of her lips as she
drew them again and
He was never sated.
and we sex addicts also get our fix with funky lips
Razz is also one of the mere handful of people in Judeo=Christian civilization who
refuse to deploy the vulgar back formation "satiated" when sated.
champagne1982 strikes a faux-classical mood in Dis Temper
not to mention the double entendre inherent in the title
I plead my heart be still,
In poorly pondered wrath
To strike not, those upon this path,
Anger at a fool bodes ill.
They only see the bilious foam
Lathered and frothing on whitened lips
Or the ugly pout from which sullen acid drips.
The centaur calls the swampy Styx your home.
I do not want that my immortal soul
Be doomed to founder in the mire.
Let peace and quietude transpire
Soft tranquility my goal.
I endeavour to be not vengeful with my will,
And swallow, e'en though humility, be a bitter pill.
One wonders if the last line is doubled as well--it DID give me a brief
is an economical one-gulp poem which--to me--starts indeterminately but
finds its metier with
life recalls a
well spring of raindrops
sleeping in puddles
but check your spelling gurl before submitting to the New Yorker
(unless I've missed comething really arcane)
lighthearted steve porter gives us find something small
which packs a lot of punch into a single package
find something small
and make it tall
and if its sad
then make it glad
go find a twig
and make it big
like you took me
and made a tree.
again - double entendre on the terminal couplet but
did the poet intend it one wonders
I have been wondering where Maria (2394) was hangin' out
during her last reincarnation but her poem being, in between
has resolved the conundrum - meso-America
where, as a virginal sacrifice she ponders blood and trans-migration
(Maria - painting this image of a submissive virgin reclining gives your
admirers plenty food for thought [but enough of this gay banter])
I watched as my blood was smeared upon
a statue raised to the sky.
Sun god was appeased and the priests
prayed for health and crops and rain
Away as a spirit, inhabiting rocks
a special place, near the top
of some mountain, crevice or hill
perhaps, wedged beneath a sacred stone.
blood is a powerful occult symbol--I'll think about all this Maria
tungtied2u types trippingly across the tongue with
(and he's read Tom Wolfe)
Acid soaked Ann Arbor afternoon
3 stooges on tv and in front of
Moe, Larry, cheese
let’s vacate this dorm dump
trip down flights of stairs
squeeze thru the exit
3 into 1 won’t go
nyuk nyuk nyuk
Rushing, ride the drug high
into the arboretum
trees sway, lurch towards us
we sit in the open
safer in the tall grass
Luminescent greens lull us
a dog sentinel approaches
Curly speaks dog
We all comprehend
Altered state of mind
yeah! there's nothing like a sylvan arbor to dull down that "Here be The Man" paranoia
Liar's Definition: Sanjib
is about this East Indian guy who wants to make it with a European girl
so as to make flesh that Indo-European fusion of which the ancients were so enamored
Sanjib draws houses
combs his hair to the left
than he dances
likes Brodsky and Peanuts
and real English tea
a direction and dream
to marry a European girl
cherish, honor and achieve
and live by the sea
he probably will
because everyone can see
that even the gods swoon
when Sanjib smiles
the European girls do
and bloody hell
(but I keep it to myself)
so do I
(DRAT! whadda I gotta do to get me a Eurogurl)
Liar then ups the ante with To travel in small Steps
a richly complex poem with a simple focus - navigating the Japanese rail system--ultimately with the assistance
of a pleasant young lady
Kimika, passer-by, goer-north.
Come, American. Better seats
in the other end.
and who the hell
was I to argue?
Some hours passing by,
diversion, new smells
and a face ever imprinted
when I close my eyes.
So where you going, American?
So am I, oh let me show you
all the things I love.
there are so many fractions
of any given place...
...the Great Dragon
A day and a night,
fast forward by,
to a Tokyo morning
and two happy
but hung over travellers
still quite strangers
on a summer dry street
with a tight hug,
and a kiss on the cheek.
the only one I got,
but I don't mind,
I got faces and smells,
demand nothing more
And I never got around
to tell her
I'm not American.
So I guess I still might be,
somewhere up north
from Osaka Grand Central
something or the other,
when she close her lids.
===============this is a very different train experience to that presented at
which specializes in that peculiar Japanese fetish of having
non-consensual, equivocably-consensual and--ultimately--consensual sex on trains
often with schoolgirls in their pretty little sailor suits
=============though - she would be bearing my children by now Liar.
I haven't known enough Japanese girls yet to be sated--butI recognize the delicacy,
the mannerisms, the singsong lilt to the voice, the head-bobbing and giggling, the
submissive courtesies that make men want to reach out to Japanese girls and
give their cheeks a little squeeze and hand them a small yellow rose only just
opening from bud
good job bro
annaswirls has the rare quality of being able to paint characters so that the video instantly rolls in the mind
her more than you can carry
reminds me a little of GOOD COUNTRY PEOPLE/Flannery O'Connor in the GRANTA BOOK
OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY/edited by Richard Ford - Granta, London, 1992.
Mame - who bailed out of Edgewood when African-Americans began buying up property there -
is a quintessential American character
once again, Mame overestimated her strength
I don't know how I am going to carry this home.
Which is how Mame wound up in my passenger seat,
chicken breast and dried prunes
stashed in the back
up here right there
she points direction
with her pink charpe finger
no, she has not lived here all her life,
used to live in Edgewood
before it started to go black
walking Miss Mame to the door
we are greeted by Ester and Marie
who shake their heads and laugh
Mame did you go and get more than you could carry again?
she accepts tease from friends,
best friends whose black charpe hands
hold the door, help with bags
Mame laughs too, thanking everyone.
--I haven't faithfully reproduced the italics on certain lines
but I can see mame pointing her peremptory finger, as she
chivvies the driver.
Good work Anna
and more good work with tracing speechless
read tear raised Braille
across “return to sender.”
She licks salt for something.
let’s not talk about it tonight
just tell me I am beautiful
tell me we are blessed
haldir's work is interesting but unformed--check out
Look for me in the darkest hour
And I'll be there
To stroke you, lick you
Bite you, scratch you,
Howl at the rising moon
With me in joy.
Snarl at the rising sun
With me in frustration.
Look for me in the darkest hour
And I'll be there.
when he's fucked another hundred women in the darkest hours his work may become
more subtle---how do I know that? apart from all the hubris splashing bout the place--well . . .
I'm not going to tell you
AND AT THIS POINT MY FRICKIN' CABLE CONNECTION WENT OUT AND THE WORLD BECAME BLACK)
a poem called sorry from a nic like doormouse might give one images of submission
and the poem doesn't disappoint in that regard.
I have not seen this poet before but she is spare and to the point
Absailing, spiralling, slowly uncoiling
Caring, manipulative deceptive
The rug has been laid;
Yet the edges frayed
Love honour integrity
Undying devotion provokes;
Untold thoughts, desires
Untold lust afire
Untold sacrifices surfacing
Love. Abandoned hopes;
Haunting history prevailing;
I bow defeated.
I like the first six lines best though the last two will hae some reaching for a pen to note any relevant phone number
(check spelling of abseiling though--it's phonetically corect but.........)
I want to see more by this person
lostandfounder is a clever clogs this week with
A Question on Haiku
in which a series of haiku encapsulate his question, neatly and elegantly
What makes a haiku?
Five, seven, five, set in stone
Like some ancient runes?
Or is it flowing
Like a stream filled with spring rain
Liquid and alive
Crisp words used with care
Many different masks
a good lesson in economy and symmetry
Uncle Pervey makes his pitch to be a backup screenwriter for Third watch with
which--before being disabused--I thought referred to a cab company in Ottawa--
if I could get back all my Blue Line tips late at night I could drink cheap wine for the next eight years
Sometimes the job is just way too much,
Cause their daily work is with crime.
Dealing with low-lifes soon gets them,
They're united and they're the "Blue Line!!"
you seem ambivalent about the role of our heroic boys in blue Uncle - shame on you
simply_cyn wants us to be in no doubt as to her slutness - slut is a word of
power when used in the bedroom - several flight paths north of crack 'ho' so
I don't see this as any reason not to take her bowling
has a singsong rhyme scheme which I would usually eschew but it maps the terrain where the rubber meets the road alright.
Panting breath past parted lips
Heaving breasts lift in aching need
Tingling flesh shivers in delight
Lustful passions scream to be freed
Searching fingertips over heated flesh
Trembling lips leave a searing trail
Shifting thighs brush in helpless want
Trust heart, oh so frail
Exquisite limbs and aching form
House the slut within
Broken dreams and shattered heart
Present the girl called cyn
it's not subtle enough to induce me to take a personal break before finishing this odyssey but it has its charm
The Grand Old Man of the group--Tathagata--much lusted after by the local matrons
proves that he understands exquisitely (you thought I was going to split the infinitive)
the Japanese tea ceremony/with
stone lanterns light
ceremonial tea house
bend to enter
all are humbled
small brazier heats
pure mountain water
submerged wind chime
and I add the tea
to your unglazed cup
and adding water
create the world
I mix your tea
turned 3 times
birth, life, death
as this tea
I offer you this cup
I hope he travelled JAL and not Pan-AM
There's a definite Japanese theme this week and I wonder if it's some form of
morphic resonance connected with the visit of her Royal Highness (a Japanese princess) to
Canada over the past few days.
Indeed a Japanese of my acquaintance recently wrote in a syntax that will
be familiar both to Liar and to Tatha
"Many thanks for your most beautiful letter. In this approaching spring, may <name>
wishes you a heart garden blossom with pretty spring flowers. Though we live apart
from each other, the morning wind will take my blessings to you and may happiness
accompany you forever. Thank you very much for writing to <name> and more hugssssssssss
for you, my dearest friend.
I am returning home to Japan and right now, I am writing in the room of my school.
Tell you a little about myself. Every year, from around April till September, I will
usually visit back to my school and study for a little. Even though I have graduated
years ago, but the coming back to revised my school work and revisit my mentors
and reconnect with nature is a big joy in my life. My foster parents stay in Japan
and they operated a koi farm. And all my mentors and friends are here. And moreover,
spring in Japan is most beautiful...where cherry blossom bloom the whole nation and
every of us are touched by their fragrance. This inspires me to write most of the
months during spring till autumn."
I find it impossible for my occidental pen to adequately respond to her images.
END OF REVIEWER'S CORNER - I NEEDED A BREAK--THIS HAS BEEN GOING ON FOR HOURS
Do any reviewers get so involved that they fail to feel the fell of night and wonder why it's getting so hard to type--do they ever become
dizzy and suddenly fall right over from lack of food and water??????????
When I finally come to one of Tara Blackwood's poems I tend to sit back - light up my pipe - watching the little coals burn
yet more holes in my old woolen cardigan and cry ARRRRRRRRGH MATIES sufficiently loudly to upset local
Today's poem speaks not of the seamy underbelly, the demimonde, Berlin in the 20s, longings, moanings,
not of the tenderloin or midnight wanders, morning maunders--not at all
it is childhood reminiscence and like a couple of other poets on here, tara makes the
imagination wince and sing with apprehended sounds and scents
Her talking to pirates
Tara has attracted so much comment in the group that for me to mouth fresh encomia might
well guild the lily - so I'll let the poet's luscious lips speak for themselves
even the dogs sheltered
that February day, den
foggy with pipe smoke, smelling
of cherries and wood,
resonant with the squeaks
of Uncle Willy’s rocker
and gunfire from ice pellets
peppering the windows and vinyl outside.
spinning pirate stories
as always, through hail,
so clear and chilling
the skull and crossbones flapped
from the fireplace mantle, treasure
buried under the floorboards.
planks ran from the deck
of his desk
to the briny odors
of the scullery
(the salty perfume of Aunt Ester’s country ham),
and mutineers walked and drowned.
through parting pipe clouds, thunder
broke from the ceiling,
hung from crow’s nests
in room corners, ordering
the cannons ready.
men of the deep sat
at our kitchen table, slamming
down their iron mugs
in the slap of uncle’s hand
on the mahogany, mead frosting
their beards, wiped
by heavy blue sleeves.
surge of the sea
on parlor floor,
soaked in watersplash,
ducking fire and swing ropes,
knives in our teeth.
nieces and nephews
partners in blood,
to a man with a boy’s heart.
there's not much I would change here except this verse
resonant with the squeaks
of Uncle Willy’s rocker
and gunfire from ice pellets
peppering the windows and vinyl outside
my take is
Uncle Willy's rocker squeaks, ice-
raking the windows)
or something close to that
I've been on a lot of ships
from yawls in squalls
to iced up peepers on sweepers
to the sleek greyhounds of death on Standing Naval Foce Atlantic patrol (STANAVFORLANT)
and the crashing of the men's iron mugs works for me
too bad Tara's from Evanston or she could be "Big Noise From Winetka"
honorable mention: echoes_s First Year Anniversary
I'm too weak of stomach to get my teeth into Tristesse's Puke
but I'm not a censor so there it is for vomit fetishists
catastrophe does a clever deal at her HMO with
knock on door
rub my button
pay the bill
like my health plan
that pays the hooker
=================basically the poem's protagonist has the "little girl gets her first cum in the gynie's office"
I've seen this fetish in the dark, desires and Fantasies room at Talkcity
which really helps those cold, dark winter nights slip by.....but........
I can't get into looking at wide-open cooze with a cold speculum inside.
more power to anyone though who can make their bones at Blue Shield's expense
PHEW - I believe I've strayed back into the 16th--inadvertently--something I would never do vertently
CARLIEBEAR'S PICKOF DA WEEK
has to be wanton wonton's poem - I will still be reading this on my deathbed
I prostrate myself at her feet
scrunching her grapeseeds with my molars
FIN--THE END--AL FIN--NICHT MEHR