writing live

[RoperTrace]

I awaken
like every other morning,
needing relief
and doggie's need
comes soon after

the early spring air
wakes me fully,
time for Gus
to eat his kibble

coffee is my friend
and enemy,
however my pounding
head says drink up

where is the Tylenol?
Land-o-Lakes butter
melts slowly on twenty-one
grain wheat toast

I don't know
how this day ends,
but its start
is no mystery.

 

[RoperTrace]

Mark O’Brian gets Laid

Mark O’ Brian contracted polio at the age of six. He had three functioning muscles, one in his right foot, one in his neck and one in his jaw. With these he managed to be a successful reporter, publisher, journalist, social critic and poet. Died July 1999 aged 49.

At age thirty-six his body
is like discarded clothing, twisted,
to tortured angles, pointless.
Turning is not an option,
eyes, ears, mind percolate all too well.
From the neck up he is perfect.
Paddle-hands, useless as empty gloves,
lie open at his sides, a state of pleading
but pleading for what? Not death,
those days are over for he is loved
and has loved but sex eludes him.
He dreams of it at night and wakes sticky
with reality. His care-giver says nothing
as he bathes him but it hangs in the air
like an accusation. He hates his body.

She comes into his claustrophobic world
like one of those pure spring days,
initiates all kinds of possibilities,
not just hands but tongue and more.
She won’t mince words, a spade’s a spade
in her world. With talk and mirror she
lets him see his eager body, that straining
thing he had not seen since he was six
and calls it lovely, not a common word for him.
At last, she touches it, nothing explodes,
we wait as she lowers, guides and smiles.
“Breathe” and he does.
Afterward she kissed his chest.

Mark O'Brian is a new role model for me. It appears that we were the same age, and I knew people from our generation who contracted polio in our small town of ~600. My best friend was one, and the son of my mom's childhood friend also. It was everywhere. My soon to be 92 year-old sister was a young physical therapist who worked with Jonas Salk during the time he developed and tested polio vaccine. She still calls him Jonas, which I love when she says that.

 

[butters]

no matter how we sit and fuss
dutifully turn each egg
abstain from distractions of food
or company
those chicks will only hatch
when they are ready

make sure you're ready
with scratchy pen
when those peeps start peepin'

 

[butters]

"bathroom sex", that coy euphimism for a shag in public bogs

how desperate
insensate to aromas of shit, piss and puke
invisible, lurking bacterial clusters
from toilet bloom and unwashed hands
must one be
how sad
blind drunk
or stoned
to even consider it
let alone go through with it
each surface suspect
for traces of cocaine, covid, or cum

just
ew

 

[EllenMore]

No Safeword

Sherry asks me what
I can possibly get out of kink.

It's simple,
I say. When I'm being slapped

I can just spit out a word—
"yellow," "pineapple,"
or whatever
and it will stop.

My marriage never worked that way.

 

[OtherMan]

No Safeword

Sherry asks me what
I can possibly get out of kink.

It's simple,
I say. When I'm being slapped

I can just spit out a word—
"yellow," "pineapple,"
or whatever
and it will stop.

My marriage never worked that way.

Sometimes I’m struck
by simple words
so sublimely uttered
that I feel the slap
and am humbled
by the strength
it takes to stand
and feel
and grow
and own.
An honor
to have been led,
to have read
such clean
Power.


Sincerely. Thank you.

 

[butters]

weatherhead

overnight low of 74
humidity off the charts
as the Gulf's sweaty breath
renders poetry a soupy mess
sequestered
in unrealised throbbings
related to barometric pressures
not erstwhile inclinations of the flesh

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

One More Time

So, here we are.

Together again.

Familiarity stiff
with fresh healed hostilities
from weeks of warring,
concentrating on the task at hand.

You used to cook,
I’d set the table.

Your wok, my china.

Your cock, my vagina?

Stop it!

Once comfortably
accommodated,
now an insistent itch
of need.

Erotic novels bought together
on blustery. bookish days
bellwether for our future,
blurt obscenely across the floor.

Other evidence of discordance,
photos ripped in two; gifts given
then cast back in anger.

The Tiffany lamps, the nipple clamps,
the crystal glass, the distal pass
of your eyes over this marital mess.

Undeniable electricity crackles
at the brush of knuckles, hissing,
breathless thirst.
Instant recall, Saturday morning’s bed
destroyed, bathroom floods
destroyed, bathroom floods
from shower sex,
body-heated hot tub.

Eyes meet in understanding.

Just once more for old times’ sake.

 

[Ambient4190]

when the belly
sticks out almost
as far as boobs
my rule for me
time to lose weight

bye bye cookies
with coffee - sigh
desserts at night - boo hoo
winter is over
drink lots of water
flush the rubbish out

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Sunday Brunch

Shamelessly
we sit, your feet in my lap
sleep still in our eyes
while the world passes by
in their Sunday's best.

My shirt looks better on you
than myself licking jam
off your finger and the question
an elephant in the room
can this go on?

There will be Mondays
and breakfast before 7 am meetings
socks caught in my own shoes
while I miss the honey noon minutes
for another five days.

 

[EllenMore]

Broken

Masculinity was a glass vase
perpetually at the edge of the table
—Melissa Febos, "The Cure"

I was afraid to tell him
that I didn't want to fuck him anymore,
because he seemed almost fragile
as a champagne flute
that would shatter

on any high note from a violin
or a coloratura soprano.
So I let him stay in my bed
while I thought about how
I might tell him he should leave.

But then he offered me a ring,
and I had to say no. So
then, finally, he moved out.
I have to say, though,
there are times I really miss his cock,

and while my hand and my toys help.
they aren't arms around me,
which I'm not sure I want anyway,
though sometimes they were a comfort,
even if I didn't really, you know,

love him.

 

[butters]

death of a rooster

i'm a patient person
and he'd taken more liberties
than trump backstage at a beauty pageant
inflicted stabs and bruises
used up more than 9 lives
was on borrowed time

and still
believing the hype of his plumage
and sick with that vitriolic rage
unique to small-guy syndrome
he pushed his luck
and pushed it further
pumped on adrenaline
causing the end of the rake
to fall off
and staff met him halfway

even near death
he showed off
cartwheeling for posterity
before i took his head

as he swims now
in fragrant broth
in a diced garden
of complimentary vegetables
i wonder
will he taste like anger?

 

[butters]

not store bought chicken

there's something
primal
about eating one's opponent

my stomach processes
in bites
this new experience

 

[Ambient4190]

precious
returned to me
how was your pilgrimage
journey over sea

mother of last year
or one of her brood
your wings flitter so
difficult to know

nectar i will make
faithfully and true
thru til november
or whenever you may go

 

[butters]

which comes first
the white roar in my ears
making me sleepy

or being sleepy
inducing white noise
in my ears?

not that it matters
just circular thinking
revolving down rabbit holes

 

[OtherMan]

Why is the worth so shallow
the fertile dirt in need
as ready earth lies fallow
and waiting for the seed?

The ground it is not salted
just wants a tiller’s hand
for that it is not faulted
waiting the ripe command.

4/26/23

 

[butters]

David bowie's brother

insatiably curious child
split between two families
opened his brother's mind
to new worlds
via the medium of art
music, books, films
all alien to small suburban living

months here, there,
s p l i t the boy
his behaviour
sharing and loss
constant companions

escaping meant flying to the sky
the sun in his eyes
and after the war
a diagnosis
schizophrenic
doomed to spend his remaining days
in one spot
alternately flying
or feeling the poison
of heated winds in his face

his younger brother
a collector of personalities
never entirely sure of who he was
nor especially caring for long
enjoyed a freedom to explore skies of his own
art his escape
his expression
a spectrum child
fractures unconfined to a hospital bed

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Clerihews for The Coronation

King Charles the Third
is a man of his word.
when he and Di split
Camilla was a fit.

Camilla P-Bowles,
what are her goals?
Is it to be queen?
Some say that’s obscene.

And the rest of The Firm
with their specific sperm?
On the real world stage,
they’d earn minimum wage.

Good luck to them all
in this extravagant ball
that involves the crown
to get the king nailed down.

 

[OtherMan]

The freckle
beckons begs
licking - thick
leg kicked
bent to neck.
Tongue flicks
brown fleck on
slick wet skin…
sent puckered
pecks lending
fucked mouth
sighs, thighs
parting while
smile slides…
rides bucked
hips… slips
slow lip…
laps ‘til sun
dot spot
on labia
is gone.

5/7/23

 

[butters]

weeding: best done 2 days after a downpour

so you've provided a bed
plucked out sticks and stones
made it soft for young'uns
planted neatly or haphazardly
(the vagaries of life)
you've tended them daily
made sure they had enough to drink
some proper nourishment
watched out for bugs
treated any disease
worried about frostbite
drownings, sunburn

now uninvited growth sprouts thick
clusters close, too friendly
small at first but taking hold
around your charges
and you know what first appears
is harmless
but left unchecked will
rob your happy seedlings
of all they need the most

you can't use poison
it'd defeat the purpose

so you wait for the inevitable rains to fall
as you know they must
watch the flash mob leap
to obscure the ones you care for
even as the soil dries hard
clings tight to all

and then still hold back
as deluge denies the watering can
and atmospheric tensions burst

the sun returns
but to wade, now, into the fray
before allowing things to settle
to drain a little
would be unwise
a sticky, muddy mess
let things breathe a little

day two works best

with soft hands gently riffle
just beneath the surface
& problems calmly ease on out
often to the smallest root
no arguments
no drama

always wait till after the rain
to weed

 

[29wordsforsnow]

It looks like The International Congress of Weed
in the little corners I euphemistically call garden
but knee-deep in the green, lionised with no intent
by flying species I'm too mindless to look up
in books of neatly ordered nature
it's amazing to see the magic at work
tight holes drilled into 'useless' trees
again abuzz with busy butts
that come and go and dare to be fruitful
this is - and no acclaimed writer has erred yet here - pretty wild

 

[butters]

at night

beneath the stars
blood looks black in the snow
breath's a faint grey mist
the passion of violence
colourless

 

[butters]

in life's rivers
rounded stones
shaped & smoothed
by time & tides
water glides past them
over beds of gravel

those further from the flow
feet buried in dirt
jut more sharply
fractures & splinters exposed
yet softened by moss
stains of oxidisation

in the blue distance
aloof, craggy peaks
snow-capped year round—
even they have rainier days
& meltwater resumes
its slow
patient
work

 

[butters]

thanks, Winter Fare... small changes appear in this thread, post 982

https://forum.literotica.com/thread...regrets-included.683066/page-40#post-96968761

 

[butters]

lessons learned

hold too tight
& we strangle

too loose
they slip through our fingers

a balancing act we strive to perform
as experience teaches us

as it teaches those we lose
in the process