21·Oct·2005 · "Panties in the Sink" · annaswirls

[The Poets]

Panties in the Sink

If you must know
I have these little wirey hairs on my tits.
Actually they are not little.
They are long.

Yes I pluck them
with angled tweezers,
finger-tips,
the pain wakes me right up
nipples perk and pink and wanting
their own pinch.

Shaving nipples does not seem right
although that guy with the crooked cock shaved his
right there in front of me the first time we fucked.
Hell of a thing to wake up to
looking down from a strange loft
dizzy with vertigo vision
to see a naked man
shaving his chest.

He starts to explain.
I do not care.
I cannot care.

Finally on day three of my stay
in his Philadelphia loft,
his roommate, Chuck and I were awake at the same time.
He had snored through everything
except the night had his own bitch on the couch.
She came so loud, and then it was silent
until he said
wait, baby, come on, don't.

But it was too late,
she was sobbing
I know, I know
I can't help it!
I can't help it!
I can't help it.

And I just wanted her to stop
life on rewind and repeat
all too familiar.

Day three there were no dry towels
so I used the clean sheet off Chuck’s bunk
and was smoking on the Papasan chair
while my lover washed my panties in the sink.

Chuck sees me and says
Just don't fucking drink my Kool-aide.

Sharkle-berry fin.
I say and give him the finger.

Where's my lighter?
He smiles and reaches under my ass to feel for it.
After letting him search a minute or two
I pick up the Zippo off the milk-crate coffee table
and hold the flame under his chin.

He grabs hard
and I flex my shower-wet ass around his fingers
giving him a taste of what his roommate
was getting for washing my panties
in his sink.

I always knew it would not last,
and sure enough, day six
the little bump appeared.
There was no hiding
the ingrown hair on my left breast.
It was time to move on
before he noticed.
~​

A pre-thank you to anyone who reads, comments, etc. I need a title for this.

~anna

 

[cymry]

Panties in the Sink

If you must know
I have these little wirey hairs on my tits.
Actually they are not little.
They are long.

Yes I pluck them
with angled tweezers,
finger-tips,
the pain wakes me right up
nipples perk and pink and wanting
their own pinch.

Shaving nipples does not seem right
although that guy with the crooked cock shaved his
right there in front of me the first time we fucked.
Hell of a thing to wake up to
looking down from a strange loft
dizzy with vertigo vision
to see a naked man
shaving his chest.

He starts to explain.
I do not care.
I cannot care.

Finally on day three of my stay
in his Philadelphia loft,
his roommate, Chuck and I were awake at the same time.
He had snored through everything
except the night had his own bitch on the couch.
She came so loud, and then it was silent
until he said
wait, baby, come on, don't.

But it was too late,
she was sobbing
I know, I know
I can't help it!
I can't help it!
I can't help it.

And I just wanted her to stop
life on rewind and repeat
all too familiar.

Day three there were no dry towels
so I used the clean sheet off Chuck’s bunk
and was smoking on the Papasan chair
while my lover washed my panties in the sink.

Chuck sees me and says
Just don't fucking drink my Kool-aide.

Sharkle-berry fin.
I say and give him the finger.

Where's my lighter?
He smiles and reaches under my ass to feel for it.
After letting him search a minute or two
I pick up the Zippo off the milk-crate coffee table
and hold the flame under his chin.

He grabs hard
and I flex my shower-wet ass around his fingers
giving him a taste of what his roommate
was getting for washing my panties
in his sink.

I always knew it would not last,
and sure enough, day six
the little bump appeared.
There was no hiding
the ingrown hair on my left breast.
It was time to move on
before he noticed.
~​

A pre-thank you to anyone who reads, comments, etc. I need a title for this.

~anna

Annaswirls you are the "shock" artist of poetry. I just about laughed myself out of my chair after reading this.
My oldest sister is a radiologist and she gives mamograms regularly. Her biggest complaint is the jungle vine hairs that women have on their boobs. She always says, and I quote, "You think they'd pluck the damned things every now and then, at least when they know I'm going to see them!"
"Panties in the sink"...I might paste this into an email and send it to her.

Ok, that said, lets move on to the poem. Your running thought style of writing gets me reading and I just can't stop until I crash head first into the end of the poem. I see a few phrases that could be considered cliche' but the thing is the whole poem is so off the wall that I wouldn't call any of it cliche' if you held a gun to my head.

"life on rewind and repeat
all too familiar."

These two lines are my favorites. They catch that "done this all before" feeling so effortlessly.

All in all I'd say it rocks. I would say something more in depth but I think it will take a couple of weeks for my brain to catch up with the poem.

 

[CrowSingsOver]

Panties in the Sink

If you must know
I have these little wirey hairs on my tits.
Actually they are not little.
They are long.

Yes I pluck them
with angled tweezers,
finger-tips,
the pain wakes me right up
nipples perk and pink and wanting
their own pinch.

Shaving nipples does not seem right
although that guy with the crooked cock shaved his
right there in front of me the first time we fucked.
Hell of a thing to wake up to
looking down from a strange loft
dizzy with vertigo vision
to see a naked man
shaving his chest.

He starts to explain.
I do not care.
I cannot care.

Finally on day three of my stay
in his Philadelphia loft,
his roommate, Chuck and I were awake at the same time.
He had snored through everything
except the night had his own bitch on the couch.
She came so loud, and then it was silent
until he said
wait, baby, come on, don't.

But it was too late,
she was sobbing
I know, I know
I can't help it!
I can't help it!
I can't help it.

And I just wanted her to stop
life on rewind and repeat
all too familiar.

Day three there were no dry towels
so I used the clean sheet off Chuck’s bunk
and was smoking on the Papasan chair
while my lover washed my panties in the sink.

Chuck sees me and says
Just don't fucking drink my Kool-aide.

Sharkle-berry fin.
I say and give him the finger.

Where's my lighter?
He smiles and reaches under my ass to feel for it.
After letting him search a minute or two
I pick up the Zippo off the milk-crate coffee table
and hold the flame under his chin.

He grabs hard
and I flex my shower-wet ass around his fingers
giving him a taste of what his roommate
was getting for washing my panties
in his sink.

I always knew it would not last,
and sure enough, day six
the little bump appeared.
There was no hiding
the ingrown hair on my left breast.
It was time to move on
before he noticed.
~​

A pre-thank you to anyone who reads, comments, etc. I need a title for this.

~anna

It was a very interesting read. I wasn't sure where you were going, then you swerved, and swerved again. I think there were a few parts where the rhythm seemed a bit off. When you first introduced the guy who shaved his chest, it seems you forced too much into a few lines. Other than that, I appreciate not knowing what to expect

 

[Rybka]

A female (definitely not feminine) "on the Road" type write? - I don't know Jen, under what category would you submit this? It's dirty, but honest, and not erotic. Could you expand it enough to submit it as a story? - Your writing is always moving and far above the average at Literotica, even (especially?) when you break out of expected molds. - This is not one of my favorite writes by you, but I guess I want to pigeonhole you (better than 'cornhole', No?) like all the other poets I faithfully read.

I must add that one of my first lovers was an older women who had breast hairs. I was shocked and disillusioned. I got them caught in my teeth and it pleased neither of us.

 

[The_Fool]

except the night had his own bitch on the couch. Confuses me. Should there be a "he" in there somewhere?

I think wirey should be wiry.

The conversation between Chuck and his bitch tells me nothing, so I must be dense.

Your punctuation drove me crazy, but so does mine.....

When I first read it, the phrase I do not care. I cannot care. bothered me. I thought it detracted from the poem. But the more I read it, the more I like it. It offers a sense of desperation to a woman that appears to be moving rootlessly through life without really feeling, just fucking. Moving on when that damned hair appears.

Has a bohemian feel to it. Sex is just another method of interpersonal communication. Certainly dated with Zippo lighters and PapaSan chairs. But I can get a great visual. That is true for the entire poem. I get a great visual.

This poem had a great "conversational" feel to it. A sililoquy offered up with casual sex for a gesture.

 

[bogusbrig]

This is not your best work by far but for what it is, it works well. The imagery doesn't resonate but there is enough action and detail to keep the reader's attention deficite satisfied to the end and it reads well. I read it with the idea of coming back to it to give it a critique but forgot all about it until I logged back on to Lit. Normally with your work I find it rattles in my head long after I've read it and happily return to read it again, feeling I've missed something or I can get a different perception of it. This just doesn't do it for me, though as I have said, I did find it an enjoyable read, rather like a Hollywood movie, you leave the cinema wondering where you have been and what you have been doing for the last 90 minutes, because the last 90 minutes are blank. Candy floss, very enjoyable candy floss but it disolves to nothing.

You're a big girl so I know you can take it.

 

[annaswirls]

Thanks for the replies so far, I did not post this thinking it would be good for my ego, but good for my writing, and I thank you for the honesty.

You are right Bogus, I am a big girl and I can take it. Many people, especially in the past months, have been reminding me and everyone who reads the comments"this is not one of her best" on nearly every poem I submit. I am trying to grow. I know how to write a "good" poem. I know how to write a poem that leaves readers strangely attracted to the person who wrote it. I know how to write a poem to arouse the reader. I can write more or these but in order to grow to the next level, I have to relearn. Re-expose myself. Show the things that are not attractive, not arousing, not beautiful. I do not want to hide away in a cave while I am in the ugly awkward stage. I have a certain amount of trust with people here, that I thought I could put myself out there, even when my shell is still soft.


I posted a poem that is not among my best because I want it to be better. It is not good for anyone's ego to expose parts of themselves that are imperfect, flawed. I need to do this in order to grow. I am big enough to expose my own imperfections, to dissolve the veil. I posted a poem about some things noone ever talks about (except cyrmy's sister) because of the imperfection.

As far as candy floss, I hope that other readers get something more out of this than spun sugar. If anyone is interested, I put more into it than that, but I know that the ingredients put into the machine is no a guarentee of what people will get out of it.

Okay now I will try to shush until it is over, I just wanted to reassure people that it is okay to put what they feel down. I will address specific questions next week-- please ask if you want me to respond.

Thanks again,

anna

 

[bogusbrig]

As far as candy floss, I hope that other readers get something more out of this than spun sugar. If anyone is interested, I put more into it than that, but I know that the ingredients put into the machine is no a guarentee of what people will get out of it.

Candy floss does sound harsh and insulting but I was using what I know of your own work as a measure and how your poetry affects me. Though I would call Bukowski candy floss too and for the same reasons, good entertainment and a good read but leaves no resonance. I don't see anything wrong in that, most of us have have a long way to go to reach that level.

 

[annaswirls]

Candy floss does sound harsh and insulting but I was using what I know of your own work as a measure and how your poetry affects me. Though I would call Bukowski candy floss too and for the same reasons, good entertainment and a good read but leaves no resonance. I don't see anything wrong in that, most of us have have a long way to go to reach that level.

gotcha. truth is I love what we on this side of the pond like to call cotton candy
and really I was not insulted, just knowing this piece needs something more-- and I appreciate your frankness- I swear I do.
J

 

[cymry]

I'm not familiar with her entire body of work, but I have to disagree that this is candy floss. Annaswirls has captured the transient nature of youth so well here with the disjointed form, the blurted thoughts without any real direction.
Here this girl is, crashing with some guy and his room mate, washing her panties in a sink, drying off with a bed sheet, and talking about hairs on her tits.
It only drives home the whole mentality of a young mind with nothing better to do and absolutely no ties to hold it back. I won't call it angst, no, it's more an unintentional disreguard for society's expectations.

Maybe I'm just missing the point here or maybe I'm just reading more into it than there is. Who knows, but I liked it. More so because it didn't conform to any "mold" of form or content.

 

[bluerains]

I'm not familiar with her entire body of work, but I have to disagree that this is candy floss. Annaswirls has captured the transient nature of youth so well here with the disjointed form, the blurted thoughts without any real direction.
Here this girl is, crashing with some guy and his room mate, washing her panties in a sink, drying off with a bed sheet, and talking about hairs on her tits.
It only drives home the whole mentality of a young mind with nothing better to do and absolutely no ties to hold it back. I won't call it angst, no, it's more an unintentional disreguard for society's expectations.

Maybe I'm just missing the point here or maybe I'm just reading more into it than there is. Who knows, but I liked it. More so because it didn't conform to any "mold" of form or content.

I am not really a good critic..but ...I love this poem for what cymry has just written...
wow...c...am impressed...sighs...blue

 

[WickedEve]

I really like the content.
I wouldn't edit any or much of it out.
That's it for me on comments.

 

[champagne1982]

I don't know what to think. Is it late 60's, pre-disco? I don't know but I believe an incense burner smokes in the corner and a few scattered seeds, from buds broken and tamped into a pipe, are lingering down inside Chuck's couch, beside his lighter.

I'm hesitant to call it a poem, it's almost flash prose/prose poetry, something that is definitely in the realm of more recent works. I would venture that you could turn this into a Terantino screenplay and all that's missing is the girl getting a shot of adrenaline into her heart.

John Travolta as "Chuck".

Can't you hear that sweet little tenor of his? "C'mon, baby. Don't ... no no no don't!"

Isn't Sharkleberry Fin Koolaid blue? I see a lot of blue light in this poem.

I think you need to invent something poetic inside this piece; rhyme, a more iambic rhythm? I'm having a tough time hearing it as a poem. Honestly, it reads like a series of too-short vignettes that, although they take me through six days, I glean nothing from it, except that you have a zit on yer tit. Seems like a lot of words to say that.

I'm sorry if I don't see enlightenment waiting for me as we move on out of the loft, maybe if there is something more, that I'm missing, someone will point it out for me.

(I still like this for what it is to me, an entertaining read.)

 

[twelveoone]

Thanks for the replies so far, I did not post this thinking it would be good for my ego, but good for my writing, and I thank you for the honesty.

You are right Bogus, I am a big girl and I can take it. Many people, especially in the past months, have been reminding me and everyone who reads the comments"this is not one of her best" on nearly every poem I submit. I am trying to grow. I know how to write a "good" poem. I know how to write a poem that leaves readers strangely attracted to the person who wrote it. I know how to write a poem to arouse the reader. I can write more or these but in order to grow to the next level, I have to relearn. Re-expose myself. Show the things that are not attractive, not arousing, not beautiful. I do not want to hide away in a cave while I am in the ugly awkward stage. I have a certain amount of trust with people here, that I thought I could put myself out there, even when my shell is still soft.


I posted a poem that is not among my best because I want it to be better. It is not good for anyone's ego to expose parts of themselves that are imperfect, flawed. I need to do this in order to grow. I am big enough to expose my own imperfections, to dissolve the veil. I posted a poem about some things noone ever talks about (except cyrmy's sister) because of the imperfection.

As far as candy floss, I hope that other readers get something more out of this than spun sugar. If anyone is interested, I put more into it than that, but I know that the ingredients put into the machine is no a guarentee of what people will get out of it.

Okay now I will try to shush until it is over, I just wanted to reassure people that it is okay to put what they feel down. I will address specific questions next week-- please ask if you want me to respond.

Thanks again,

anna

You may be missing the point here:
I know how to write a poem that leaves readers strangely attracted to the person who wrote it. I can write more or these but in order to grow to the next level, I have to relearn. Re-expose myself. Show the things that are not attractive, not arousing, not beautiful.

The strange attraction is the way you write:
description
description
description - aside
description
description
description - aside
Ending generated by the aside, usually with a twist, an aha. Sometimes reading you is like reading the torah, expanding and contracting, breathing in awareness.
This is linear garbage, shock pap for the plebes. Beat-Crap. The resolution, move on. Well now, it is not the material, your dildo up the ass poem didn't have that banal quality this does.
I would rather read O Henry or WS Burroughs than Jack Kerouc. Why? They lead to something, there is a sense of development, rather than this ersatz zen of the moment, with a resolution of move on.
I admit I miss alot in your poetry, I also admit I consider you at times the best I've read of those that live. But it is for those reasons, the reasons of not wanting it to end, or ending in such a strange way one sits in awe.
Just my humble opinion.
Panties in the sink, is a great title though.

 

[annaswirls]

It was a very interesting read. I wasn't sure where you were going, then you swerved, and swerved again. I think there were a few parts where the rhythm seemed a bit off. When you first introduced the guy who shaved his chest, it seems you forced too much into a few lines. Other than that, I appreciate not knowing what to expect

Thank you for reading and commenting. If I edit this I will keep in mind the rhythm and the guy shaving his chest intro. Thanks again for your time,

AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

A female (definitely not feminine) "on the Road" type write? - I don't know Jen, under what category would you submit this? It's dirty, but honest, and not erotic. Could you expand it enough to submit it as a story? - Your writing is always moving and far above the average at Literotica, even (especially?) when you break out of expected molds. - This is not one of my favorite writes by you, but I guess I want to pigeonhole you (better than 'cornhole', No?) like all the other poets I faithfully read.

I must add that one of my first lovers was an older women who had breast hairs. I was shocked and disillusioned. I got them caught in my teeth and it pleased neither of us.

Thank you for reading and commenting, Rybka. Perhaps this should be a story. Thank you for sharing your story as well.
~AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

except the night had his own bitch on the couch. Confuses me. Should there be a "he" in there somewhere?

I think wirey should be wiry.

The conversation between Chuck and his bitch tells me nothing, so I must be dense.

Your punctuation drove me crazy, but so does mine.....

When I first read it, the phrase I do not care. I cannot care. bothered me. I thought it detracted from the poem. But the more I read it, the more I like it. It offers a sense of desperation to a woman that appears to be moving rootlessly through life without really feeling, just fucking. Moving on when that damned hair appears.

Has a bohemian feel to it. Sex is just another method of interpersonal communication. Certainly dated with Zippo lighters and PapaSan chairs. But I can get a great visual. That is true for the entire poem. I get a great visual.

This poem had a great "conversational" feel to it. A sililoquy offered up with casual sex for a gesture.

Thank you for reading and commenting on the poem, TheFool. If I edit this poem, I will definately add the "he" and looking over the punctuation. The conversation between Chuck and his girl was my unsuccessful attempt to add another character who uses sex to numb over pain, with the tears when it is finished. You are not the only person who saw this as a 60's poem. Zippo lighters and Papasan chairs are still around, but if I edit this poem I will consider changing those, as it is not the feel I was looking for.

Thank you for complimenting the parts that you saw that worked for you. I appreciate the encouragement. This is not an easy process, I knew it would not be.

Thanks again,
AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

I'm not familiar with her entire body of work, but I have to disagree that this is candy floss. Annaswirls has captured the transient nature of youth so well here with the disjointed form, the blurted thoughts without any real direction.
Here this girl is, crashing with some guy and his room mate, washing her panties in a sink, drying off with a bed sheet, and talking about hairs on her tits.
It only drives home the whole mentality of a young mind with nothing better to do and absolutely no ties to hold it back. I won't call it angst, no, it's more an unintentional disreguard for society's expectations.

Maybe I'm just missing the point here or maybe I'm just reading more into it than there is. Who knows, but I liked it. More so because it didn't conform to any "mold" of form or content.

Thank you cymry,
It is nice to see a comment by someone without preconcieved notions of how I have written in the past. Apparently, you have missed all of my good stuff.

I thank you for your time and for your encouragement,

AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

I really like the content.
I wouldn't edit any or much of it out.
That's it for me on comments.

Thanks for reading Eve,

AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

I am not really a good critic..but ...I love this poem for what cymry has just written...
wow...c...am impressed...sighs...blue

Thanks for the read and for your comments, Blue,

AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

I don't know what to think. Is it late 60's, pre-disco? I don't know but I believe an incense burner smokes in the corner and a few scattered seeds, from buds broken and tamped into a pipe, are lingering down inside Chuck's couch, beside his lighter.

I'm hesitant to call it a poem, it's almost flash prose/prose poetry, something that is definitely in the realm of more recent works. I would venture that you could turn this into a Terantino screenplay and all that's missing is the girl getting a shot of adrenaline into her heart.

John Travolta as "Chuck".

Can't you hear that sweet little tenor of his? "C'mon, baby. Don't ... no no no don't!"

Isn't Sharkleberry Fin Koolaid blue? I see a lot of blue light in this poem.

I think you need to invent something poetic inside this piece; rhyme, a more iambic rhythm? I'm having a tough time hearing it as a poem. Honestly, it reads like a series of too-short vignettes that, although they take me through six days, I glean nothing from it, except that you have a zit on yer tit. Seems like a lot of words to say that.

I'm sorry if I don't see enlightenment waiting for me as we move on out of the loft, maybe if there is something more, that I'm missing, someone will point it out for me.

(I still like this for what it is to me, an entertaining read.)

Thank you for reading Champ. I am glad you were entertained. Certainly, your comments will entertain all that read them even more, you certainly do have a witty style.

I am thinking that you are right, this might be better as a flash piece. I had hoped to convey more than nothing in this write, but it is what it is for whoever reads it.

I am surprised that you thought you might see enlightenment out of something you might read here! Good luck with that!

Thank you for reading and for your time,

AnnaS

 

[annaswirls]

I have to come back for my specific thanks here, I am late for mama's taxi service.

if I missed someone please do not take it as a slight, just that I am a busy mom who sometimes misses thigns.

who often misses things.

Thanks again,

AS

You may be missing the point here:
I know how to write a poem that leaves readers strangely attracted to the person who wrote it. I can write more or these but in order to grow to the next level, I have to relearn. Re-expose myself. Show the things that are not attractive, not arousing, not beautiful.

The strange attraction is the way you write:
description
description
description - aside
description
description
description - aside
Ending generated by the aside, usually with a twist, an aha. Sometimes reading you is like reading the torah, expanding and contracting, breathing in awareness.
This is linear garbage, shock pap for the plebes. Beat-Crap. The resolution, move on. Well now, it is not the material, your dildo up the ass poem didn't have that banal quality this does.
I would rather read O Henry or WS Burroughs than Jack Kerouc. Why? They lead to something, there is a sense of development, rather than this ersatz zen of the moment, with a resolution of move on.
I admit I miss alot in your poetry, I also admit I consider you at times the best I've read of those that live. But it is for those reasons, the reasons of not wanting it to end, or ending in such a strange way one sits in awe.
Just my humble opinion.
Panties in the sink, is a great title though.

 

[annaswirls]

Hi 1201-- glad you like the title

I think I know what you mean. This was a pretty straightforward write. Not sure I can do this one another way--0 I will journal on it to see what is underneath that I missed. Maybe something will turn up. I thank you for your candor, as always.

~anna

You may be missing the point here:
I know how to write a poem that leaves readers strangely attracted to the person who wrote it. I can write more or these but in order to grow to the next level, I have to relearn. Re-expose myself. Show the things that are not attractive, not arousing, not beautiful.

The strange attraction is the way you write:
description
description
description - aside
description
description
description - aside
Ending generated by the aside, usually with a twist, an aha. Sometimes reading you is like reading the torah, expanding and contracting, breathing in awareness.
This is linear garbage, shock pap for the plebes. Beat-Crap. The resolution, move on. Well now, it is not the material, your dildo up the ass poem didn't have that banal quality this does.
I would rather read O Henry or WS Burroughs than Jack Kerouc. Why? They lead to something, there is a sense of development, rather than this ersatz zen of the moment, with a resolution of move on.
I admit I miss alot in your poetry, I also admit I consider you at times the best I've read of those that live. But it is for those reasons, the reasons of not wanting it to end, or ending in such a strange way one sits in awe.
Just my humble opinion.
Panties in the sink, is a great title though.

 

[twelveoone]

not so fast swirley-girl - Duchamp hung a urinal on the wall, Stravinsky's Rite of Spring generated a riot. I applaud you. This forced me into playing the role of conservative , a reactionary.

Many people, especially in the past months, have been reminding me and everyone who reads the comments"this is not one of her best" on nearly every poem I submit. I am trying to grow. I know how to write a "good" poem. I know how to write a poem that leaves readers strangely attracted to the person who wrote it. I know how to write a poem to arouse the reader. I can write more or these but in order to grow to the next level, I have to relearn. Re-expose myself. Show the things that are not attractive, not arousing, not beautiful. I do not want to hide away in a cave while I am in the ugly awkward stage. I have a certain amount of trust with people here, that I thought I could put myself out there, even when my shell is still soft.


I posted a poem that is not among my best because I want it to be better. It is not good for anyone's ego to expose parts of themselves that are imperfect, flawed. I need to do this in order to grow. I am big enough to expose my own imperfections, to dissolve the veil. I posted a poem about some things noone ever talks about (except cyrmy's sister) because of the imperfection.

As far as candy floss, I hope that other readers get something more out of this than spun sugar. If anyone is interested, I put more into it than that, but I know that the ingredients put into the machine is no a guarentee of what people will get out of it.

Okay now I will try to shush until it is over, I just wanted to reassure people that it is okay to put what they feel down. I will address specific questions next week-- please ask if you want me to respond.

Thanks again,

anna

I applaud you again, the ingredients are there are there, probably not in the accepted proportions, and it may be served wrong. Anna, I always considered you the master of using tangetial information to implant the meaning, takes awile for me to get it. You know the impact, hits later, and hits hard.

champagne1982 made a reference to Pulp Fiction let's go with that for a moment, your prose-poem does have a lot of similarities to it, ugly shocking scenes, funny dialog, strange threads that are refered to like the watch. It is a non-linear film, but uses a common technique of the end scene continuing the action in the first scene (the diner). You've done pretty much the same, except it is not quite as balanced, and may need a few more threads. I was thrown by trying to look at it as a linear piece "on the road" etc. Looking at it that way, it really does look pretty lame, with gratuitous dialog and sclhock. (new word)

Panties in the Sink
Nine lines here, about tit hair

If you must know
I have these little wirey hairs on my tits.
Actually they are not little.
They are long.

Yes I pluck them
with angled tweezers,
finger-tips,
the pain wakes me right up
nipples perk and pink and wanting
their own pinch.

These next two stanzas are problematic, in that it either forces the reader to think that this is a linear poem about hair, or it unbalances the return to hair at the end, another character seems to be introduced, suggest remember this more to the end, reword slightly


Shaving nipples does not seem right
although that guy with the crooked cock shaved his
right there in front of me the first time we fucked.
Hell of a thing to wake up to
looking down from a strange loft
dizzy with vertigo vision
to see a naked man
shaving his chest.

He starts to explain.
I do not care.
I cannot care.

Finally on day three of my stay Finally?
in his Philadelphia loft,
his roommate, Chuck and I were awake at the same time.
He had snored through everything
except the night had his own bitch on the couch.
She came so loud, and then it was silent
until he said
wait, baby, come on, don't.

But it was too late,
she was sobbing
I know, I know
I can't help it!
I can't help it!
I can't help it.

And I just wanted her to stop
life on rewind and repeat
all too familiar.

Day three there were no dry towels
so I used the clean sheet off Chuck’s bunk
and was smoking on the Papasan chair
while my lover washed my panties in the sink.

Chuck sees me and says
Just don't fucking drink my Kool-aide.

Sharkle-berry fin. explain?
I say and give him the finger.

Where's my lighter?
He smiles and reaches under my ass to feel for it.
After letting him search a minute or two
I pick up the Zippo off the milk-crate coffee table
and hold the flame under his chin. I would think about singing his beard

He grabs hard
and I flex my shower-wet ass around his fingers
giving him a taste of what his roommate
was getting for washing my panties
in his sink.

Seven here about tit hair. day six may be bad enjambment, put enough at the end of the line,

I always knew it would not last,
and sure enough, day six
the little bump appeared.
There was no hiding
the ingrown hair on my left breast.
It was time to move on
before he noticed.
~​

The Days: two Threes? one Six? I like the count down, but give us a hint as to what, perhaps in the first nine lines, takes about week before they grow back.


A pre-thank you to anyone who reads, comments, etc. I need a title for this.

~anna

Looking at it another way, you have two powerful potentials here, length of time of a relationship = time it takes to grow hair on your tits, and a reversal of the traditional sex role = chest hair thing.
Balance the beginning with the end.
Stick some more hair in it, I think burning the hair on his chin would be a nice touch,
Get your days straight, strenghen it.
Dialog could be a little funnier

You are right, it does need another title.

 

[annaswirls]

okay 1201, you always keep me on my toes.

1. Yes, it was intentional to have the sexual role-reversal. She has the chest hair, he is washing panties in the sink, etc etc. I think I need to make it more clear somehow, maybe with something tangential so it is subliminal and not in your face.

2. It does need a new title. Something that reflects what I was trying to get across. I am working on an edit, for now, my boys are at the door....gotta run

you are not off the hook

I will be back, this has been a long busy weekend, and the kids are home all day tomorrow as well.

AS