Old 12-05-2013, 08:35 PM   #1
Neonurotic
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Neo Classic

I don't know. Maybe, everyone's doing it, so why not me?

Lots of old stuff here from threads my name has been removed by Literotica. I don't think I'm even called "guest", its blank, like the threads I started. Some poems I imagine I'll come back to and nitpick, others are corralled like lost sheep.

Just a reminder, I've been around Literotica since 2002, writing as "neonurotic" and "Jamison", of which, both names were deleted in 2008. I recreated Neonurotic in 2011. I have no other alts.


First up is from The 5 Senses Poem Challenge thread:


Salty Dog

More sour than a grapefruit is
its bitter pith and her anger.
Though she is spent, her sweat
and skin, her memory is blood, is mine.
Her matter stains the Formica
and sticks to me like pleather,
her vinyl chairs.

I mix her with Stoli over cracked ice
while practicing a neat freak OCD
but, there is no scrubbing that clean.
Nothing, nothing gets that smell out
it just reeks bleach,
death and disappointment.
It lingers like golden oldies on KILU radio,
an Unchained Melody, broken.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:38 PM   #2
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After Yule, It's Me

Baby it's not you or all that commitment shit
it's those humming bees.
I'm allergic, remember?
She laughs.

Lest she does forget. Wiccan woman
is drunk on heavy clover, touched
by Eastland breezes
and so am I, seduced by her honied lips.

We love out loud as purple clouds
skid across our blue sky until eventually
it rains. Her spell is broken.
I'm not so powerless, after all.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:38 PM   #3
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Sister Habits

Church bells bring back weekdays
Sundays, and sometimes Saturday too
entombed in Sister Lena's class.
Other schoolchildren behaved
and unsurprisingly, I did not.

It's that nun habit that started way back then.
The one complete with her in traditional,
old-fashioned, coif and veil,
though really, underneath she wasn't.

Sister would walk by where she punished
me, down on my knees, nose to the stone floor
with the rosary in my mouth, tasting
forgotten prayers that seemed to taste like chicken.

I dared once to feel the silk at her ankle
and catch vanilla and self-denial in her wake.
Not so traditional, not so old-fashioned,
making acting out oh so worth it.

It wasn't because I was so bad she had
me. I think it was more Sister having
a slick dirty little habit herself:
Domina and her weak/7 days a week
or at least that's how my jack-off fantasy plays.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:39 PM   #4
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Desiccated

This used to be Mission Beach
but not anymore. So-Cal is gone,
so are the Mormons and the Oakies too,
all swallowed in The Quake.

Now we lie here on our backs baking
in Memphis sands, stripped dust bowls.

Obsolete oil machinery pump
in the background, serenading us,
sucking up magma clear to China.

Revolted, I bite the inside of my cheek
rubbing her sharkskin with cocoa butter,
dreaming of grass and palms trees.

We are but dried crustaceans skittering
along dead lands as it seems cars
no longer need gasoline,
but still drain our resources.

I see seagulls and tonight I'll fry
them in butter because there is nothing left.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:40 PM   #5
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Adam and Eve II

Against the wall, we are locked,
formed in super-heated bronze goo,
now solid statues in erotic pose.

All around, gawkers and whisperers say
prayers I've long forgotten,
of a religion just as gone.

This moment lasts and lasts
as the time before it was ash
on my tongue once I found her.

Though we cast gold in shadows,
I smell apples and sin. Somehow,
we are an abomination
and once again, unforgiven.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:41 PM   #6
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Run and Fade

Heather and grass are kicked up
as wild horses run wide-open.
They are protected on Rainier
as I know I am here with you.

A fading smoker's cough and cackle
is but a whisper against thundering hooves.
This scar under my eye is just that,
a wound mending,
same as the tears you brush away.

Though at times you push, I still resist.
I can't. I don't want to talk about it. Not yet.
We find I'm artful in changing the subject.
I say, while feeding you cherries:

The best come from here, they are
the sweetest like freedom is for the Mustangs
and quieter, perhaps one day, for me too.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:44 PM   #7
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Spring (c. years ago)

It was a long time ago, I remember
spring in her sister city Albuquerque.
In the midst of busy, heavy industry,
black smoke curled from smoke stacks
was a park, purple elms, evergreens
and cherry blossoms. All trees drank
the hazy rain. I sat on the stone steps

watching ants weave around my muddied
trainer as my ass got wet and colder.
The shade of winter still bit the day,
but I sat there, huddled and hidden while
across the bridge in a Japanese 7-11
she brown-bagged us tall beers in tin cans.

She'd skipped back, black hair stringy,
dripping and fall down beside me.
I'd inadvertently taste paper before Yebisu
then her skin; it was the sun warming.
Alcohol flushed her cheeks as little kisses
flamed her neck, collarbone and down.

Out of sight, but in the open, we'd stay there
all day, get drunk then, well, we all know what.
It's where all the younger, good stories go,
getting hotter and bolder each day after.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:45 PM   #8
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Bali High and Low

She is in the blood when I close my eyes,
a tiny image through capillaries.
I squeeze tighter, see stars,
blank places that I fill. She has her way
with me and then I am

right there on Sansur where Bali whispered.
Kama swept the psalms sending
resort manicured grass, tourists
and their coconut oil baking in the sun.
Not caring that eyes were all around,
I listened, she listened and loved
sticky hot, the sand digging where
it should never be.
The breeze sent supernatural chills
we smoothed with kisses that tasted pink,
alive, so alive, sweeter than any candy.

That's all I have. Memories.
Somewhere, I lost the words
but still I can imagine her that easy,
though, I'd like to soon forget.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:45 PM   #9
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Cutter

I bit the inside of my cheek
when she told me about the birds
and bees. I had cotton candy
stuck in pre-molars and tasted blood.

She told me about the birds
and bees. It was like
a pedal steel guitar's last note
sliding a razor down my spine, ending
in 'why now?' I faked clueless well,

staring at the waves.
They were white-capped cutting
the shoreline. And the metaphor
wasn't lost to me, it filleted my feet
as I kicked off flip-flops in the sand, running.

The ocean spray stung my eyes and I cried,
not because of the salt
but how she pretended to be
my mother. Where was she
when I needed her? Not there,

Not then. Now, when it was
way too late. She'd never know.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:48 PM   #10
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Is this like Coke Classic? The original Neo? That perv? I'm all for that.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:48 PM   #11
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Grave Robber

You don't see me, not really
though I remember every
facet and glitter of your brown eyes.

I buried old things in a dead grove.
Rotten oranges pungent,
could still be tasted on the thin breeze.

You didn't go any further, but followed.
Your car's tires rolled over gravel
until the road ended and more.
Leaves crunched under my bare feet
though, it was April,
noon, and raining;

how appropriate, always raining
in cemeteries. Always, like crows
sitting on head stones, glaring.

Funny, not ha-ha, but how
barbecue smoke made my stomach growl
while all old things lay corpse-white
and naked, deep down in that hole.

Though, I could see it glowing,
a sick, sick reminder of a limp cock.
Let's rot and forget, I already started.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:51 PM   #12
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Black & White, Up All Night

Frankenstein with Boris
and Mae, flickers
on my big screen HDTV.

This popcorn butter,
Kettle Corn stuffs my nose
but I can't taste salt,
I am deaf to it, bitter sweet
coats my tongue as fresh panic
alights with the mob torches,
searching for the monster.

I get clammy as black and white,
fades to darkness.
Peasants scream
and I want too, although
breath escapes me with hyper
awareness, when I need to.

Stop. Go back, I missed Boris.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:53 PM   #13
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Caned

Poolside, in a 5-star Somewhere,
the crickets chirp in time
with the chck-chck of sprinklers.

A night breeze slides across my chest;
then along comes Jasmine and cut grass.

The hotel garden commandos
had attacked, made art out of hedges
instead of falling soldiers.

She feeds me wry smiles
and candied-ginger as I shift
from seat to seat. I can't settle.

Sweet, yes? Does it go with the pain
or does the pain go with the sweet?

She doesn't give me time to answer,
the last I see of her is a red caned ass
disappearing beneath the chlorine blue.

I know how she feels. Yes, yes, yes.
I paid for the bamboo treatment too.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:54 PM   #14
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bijou's clam

I should've stopped
with that last Corona, but . . . tequila chased
me right over that edge.
The crowd cry as sea horses sail the sky
and this Cirque du Freak is complete
with a hirsute lady.
Kissing her is scratchy.
I can smell my beer breath in her face,
and it's horrendous, but . . . wait, that's no beard,
that's bijou's clam and she's New England!
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:55 PM   #15
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Whatever Happens On Mars Stays On Mars

Faraway on a planet
much like Earth, programmed
dust devils howl, tear up the valleys,
while carving dry red beds.
An army of bots scurry
like a river, sanitizing the country side
covering the tracks of civilization
In their wake a static charge
fires the rock until it glows.

Hours later, a rocket ship touches down.
A camera mounted on wheels
rolls down a ramp, over sunburned
sand, recording as burnt rubber
and melting plastic taints the air.

"Mars is still a dead land."
Earthlings go home
and we Martians come out to play.
It rains, we taste ozone fresh,
party, party until UFO's come again.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:56 PM   #16
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Kaze no Regret

A rose petal soft kiss, whispers along,
stirring; arousing a pull of breath.
I see ocean blue in the middle of my eye,
have coconut suntan oil imprints of her,
the tropics. We were happy then,
I was happy, but like a typhoon,
it all whirls away when we are young.

And careless are we,
we don't realize what it is really gone.

The strong timpani of last days,
my heart striking slow against her breast,
its a requiem of love. I've regret
on my lips day after day, alone,
remembering, I left, she stayed.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:58 PM   #17
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Moab

Monsoons fell on the red dirt
chasing diamondbacks under flat rocks
with an angry rattle of their tails.
Though it's the hiss of rain on desert dry-
cracked earth we find to be more menacing
as floods could wash us out.

"Scared?" I ask
"Are you?"
She grins, flipping night jasmine, wet hair
out of her eyes, her eyes flash with lightening.
She leaps like a mountain lion
and we are ass over tea kettle, rolling
in the mud. A fever and a fight
who gets top, her. It's the wet squelch
under my shoulder blades and heels
that she wins, throwing off clothes.

We move serpentine, naked in the
ooze, caked in the clay slime.
Rain turns to hail,
hell, HELL! Laughing, shivering joy,
I inadvertently taste ice in her long kiss.
We are muddy but we are happy,
slippery satisfied.

All I can think of is that I will
remember this every monsoon and I do.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:59 PM   #18
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Battle Cry

The next booth over a little towhead
all red-face with anger and tear tracks,
hushes while Mama hisses, "Wait
until we get home". But it's moot, Mama's lost
this skirmish, this baby's gonna blow.

Blow, her heated oolong breath warms
my ear as she leans across the table
to catch an eavesdropper, "Wait
until we get home." And it's moot too,
I'm sucking down a caramel machiatto.

Wondering, why wait? I win this time,
I already have her surrendering. Triumph rings
louder than any temper tantrum. She howls.
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Old 12-05-2013, 08:59 PM   #19
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Grandma's Golden Pie (serves 8)

The small apartment kitchen decorated
in black & white checks and apples too
had her Golden pie cooling,
steaming sugar and cinnamon.

I can follow a written card
in a spidery hand, her heart
and brilliant mind, like aged skin alive
guiding. Peel and core, slice,
knead the dough, crust, then bake.

I can see myself with her, laughing
and say I miss those days
and taste tears with ice cream
as it melts over a blue ribbon recipe.
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Old 12-05-2013, 09:00 PM   #20
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Fuck Progress

The concrete cubes and smoke stacks
obscure the view as does the low hum
of urbanization. The stink of pulp mills
burning, are a red light at a 4-way in
an alfalfa-and-sheep nowhere.

This sprawl scars the country,
where Starbuck's pock main street
giving the locals a taste of modernization.

It feels uneven, I mull this sitting
in a new bodega with sauvignon blanc
sharp on my tongue, longing
for this small town to stay small and
iced sweet tea in a jelly jar.
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Old 12-05-2013, 09:01 PM   #21
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Impermeable

The sky is wide open as is my mouth
while her unrequited love falls
and splits the ground.
Thunderstruck in the snow in the
only place in the world where it can.
This salty land, blowing wind
and ice that stings my eyes. Laughing,
or crying, I don't really know,
don't care, she confessed .
Sunrise sweet coffee and cake sits bitter,
like words that should've been said
long ago. It's too bad I already moved on,
coat tails waving at the shins, snapping
in step, one step at time until gone.
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Old 12-05-2013, 09:01 PM   #22
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the Upside Down - a nod to Houdini

Open eyes to an artificial blue,
though the water stings, the view is clear
Clear down to the bottom.
where the key winks and is not easily retrieved.

With half a breath, I fumble with the fetters.
Only one is unlocked but it is enough to be free.
Water filled ears pop to
her and him speaking in a vacuum,
surface breaks to their delight.

I slip from the pool with chains a-jangle,
jingling, leaving footprints behind on
the smooth tile to sizzle in the sun.

Chlorine is overridden by the drunk
and I drink. Suck her lemon laced kiss
while his is tequila with salt on the rim
of his ear where I exhale, "your turn".
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Old 12-05-2013, 09:03 PM   #23
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Angeline View Post
Is this like Coke Classic? The original Neo? That perv? I'm all for that.
Haha! Just like.
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Old 12-05-2013, 09:13 PM   #24
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Neonurotic View Post
Haha! Just like.
I'm putting my vote in now for some illustrated poems. There's already a lot here I love.
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Old 12-05-2013, 10:32 PM   #25
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My Illustrated(s) from Archival Review:


Amelia


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