A practice session

[Wat_Tyler]

Rain . . . .


Taking my own advice,
I have no idea what to write today.
But I’m going to write
Because Jesus hates a pussy,
And I, Dear Reader, ain’t no pussy.

I don’t know about you
(and I probably don’t want to),
But the best days of all,
The ones with the bestest weather,
The pretty ones,
Are the days right after
The ginormous hurricane blows out of town.

The air is a special kind of fresh.
Usually, the humidity is low and there is a breeze blowing.
You know, zephyrs.
A bit of wafting without the stench.
In fact, no stench at all.
The air has been flushed.
Disinfected without chemicals.

There is destruction that comes with it.
It flushes Man’s mind.
Rids him of the delusion that we are in charge of anything.
Or it should.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

Excellent!

The pic is of Fernando Pessoa, the greatest writer of the 20th century and the father/mother of all who seek fulfillment through the creation of alternative personalities.

Let's put the Lit in Literotica!

( . )( . )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Thank you!!!


I'm working on one about my old horse. He's been gone 9 months now. I'm going to see his #1 buddy this weekend.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Write



Write!!!

Write, you dumbass, write!!!

Write like your sanity depends on it,
Because it does.
If you have it to spill and you don’t write,
Then you are all kinds of a pussy.
And as we all know,
Jesus hates a pussy!

“Writer’s Block!
I have Writer’s Block!”
No. No, you don’t.
You’re a pussy.
Jesus hates your miserable guts
Because you’re loathsome scum.
A useless piece of flotsam
Floating in the cesspool of life.
You need to hurry up and finish drowning.

Blocked?
You’re not blocked.
You suffer from the delusion that every word
Springing from your pussy-soft fingertips
Has . . . to . . . be . . . perfect!!!
It doesn’t.
It has to be . . . a word.
It has to be yours.
It has to be on the page.
Virtual,
paper,
the back of the water bill envelope,
a scrap of asswipe that stuck to your shoe
And followed you out of the potty.
Hell, lipstick on a fucking wall.
Just write the fucking thing down already
And quit whining!

Pussy!!!

Fuck, it’s not like you’re Shakespeare.
There has been one and you ain’t he.

You can edit out the suckage later.
Or your editor can read it,
Tell you that at least you wrote it down, Pussy,
But that you need to suck out the suckage.
Tough it out and do it.

Words on a page.
Put them there.
Tell a story,
Say what you think,
Allah willing that you actually think.

I read a story that some guy wrote.
He was trying to cure his Writer’s Block.
So he wrote some tripe.
Or was it drivel???
No matter.
He needed a trip back to grammar school,
to learn All About Homonyms.
You gotta be shittin’ me.
He should have been whacked in the head with a block.
Wood?
Concrete.

Suck out the suckage
Before hitting “enter.”
But write!!!

 

[Wat_Tyler]

June 16


It’s your birthday coming soon.
Did you think I’d forget it?
I remember the date I met you,
And the name I mistook for yours.
Gwen.

You weren’t Gwen.
I’ll wager that you still aren’t.

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years….

I know. I broke us.
And there was an us to break.
We did really well for a couple of years.
The future looked futuristic.
And I broke that, my fuck-up.
I didn’t mean to do it, but it was done.
And we should have left it as done.
In the bleak midwinter….

But no, there was a thaw. And Spring, and Hope.
And Hurt Feelings unreconciled.
Perhaps because we didn’t own them.
Perhaps we could not see them.
Or perhaps we did and didn’t want to.
Or that we denied their presence.
Perhaps because we didn’t know how
to accept. And to forgive.
I’m not sure I forgive well,
But I do know how to accept.
Rather, I have learned how to accept.

It doesn’t require my approval,
And I certainly don’t have to like it.

Back and forth.
I’d get angry and leave,
Then melancholy and call.
Sometimes, you’d call.
You’d let me back, and I allowed you to return.
I never was sure why.
Maybe it was love.
More likely, it was familiarity.
Regardless.
Then you - you - put me out for good.

I had promised not to quit on you anymore.
I had meant it.
But I suppose that you had had enough.
I hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt me.
You hurt me.
I allowed what I thought was you to hurt me.
For years, I allowed it.

For years, I marked the date.
August 19.
Years later, I had a silly twat walk out on me,
On the same day. Your day.
I said, dumb twat doesn’t even get her own day.
Hurts me like a rookie.
Easily forgotten.

It carried on for years.
Your memory,
And then a stab.
Until the day that I realized
That you just aren’t a very nice person.

I had already seen that truth about myself.

Not sure which I remember.
Do I remember you?
Do I remember the pain?
Or do I just recall that I don’t hurt anymore.

At least there was an Us to break.
I wonder what would have happened if you had been Gwen.

 

[Angeline]

June 16


It’s your birthday coming soon.
Did you think I’d forget it?
I remember the date I met you,
And the name I mistook for yours.
Gwen.

You weren’t Gwen.
I’ll wager that you still aren’t.

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years….

I know. I broke us.
And there was an us to break.
We did really well for a couple of years.
The future looked futuristic.
And I broke that, my fuck-up.
I didn’t mean to do it, but it was done.
And we should have left it as done.
In the bleak midwinter….

But no, there was a thaw. And Spring, and Hope.
And Hurt Feelings unreconciled.
Perhaps because we didn’t own them.
Perhaps we could not see them.
Or perhaps we did and didn’t want to.
Or that we denied their presence.
Perhaps because we didn’t know how
to accept. And to forgive.
I’m not sure I forgive well,
But I do know how to accept.
Rather, I have learned how to accept.

It doesn’t require my approval,
And I certainly don’t have to like it.

Back and forth.
I’d get angry and leave,
Then melancholy and call.
Sometimes, you’d call.
You’d let me back, and I allowed you to return.
I never was sure why.
Maybe it was love.
More likely, it was familiarity.
Regardless.
Then you - you - put me out for good.

I had promised not to quit on you anymore.
I had meant it.
But I suppose that you had had enough.
I hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt me.
You hurt me.
I allowed what I thought was you to hurt me.
For years, I allowed it.

For years, I marked the date.
August 19.
Years later, I had a silly twat walk out on me,
On the same day. Your day.
I said, dumb twat doesn’t even get her own day.
Hurts me like a rookie.
Easily forgotten.

It carried on for years.
Your memory,
And then a stab.
Until the day that I realized
That you just aren’t a very nice person.

I had already seen that truth about myself.

Not sure which I remember.
Do I remember you?
Do I remember the pain?
Or do I just recall that I don’t hurt anymore.

At least there was an Us to break.
I wonder what would have happened if you had been Gwen.

This is raw, powerful writing. Really strong, really good.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

June 16


It’s your birthday coming soon.
Did you think I’d forget it?
I remember the date I met you,
And the name I mistook for yours.
Gwen.

You weren’t Gwen.
I’ll wager that you still aren’t.

Hard to believe it’s been 25 years….

I know. I broke us.
And there was an us to break.
We did really well for a couple of years.
The future looked futuristic.
And I broke that, my fuck-up.
I didn’t mean to do it, but it was done.
And we should have left it as done.
In the bleak midwinter….

But no, there was a thaw. And Spring, and Hope.
And Hurt Feelings unreconciled.
Perhaps because we didn’t own them.
Perhaps we could not see them.
Or perhaps we did and didn’t want to.
Or that we denied their presence.
Perhaps because we didn’t know how
to accept. And to forgive.
I’m not sure I forgive well,
But I do know how to accept.
Rather, I have learned how to accept.

It doesn’t require my approval,
And I certainly don’t have to like it.

Back and forth.
I’d get angry and leave,
Then melancholy and call.
Sometimes, you’d call.
You’d let me back, and I allowed you to return.
I never was sure why.
Maybe it was love.
More likely, it was familiarity.
Regardless.
Then you - you - put me out for good.

I had promised not to quit on you anymore.
I had meant it.
But I suppose that you had had enough.
I hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt me.
You hurt me.
I allowed what I thought was you to hurt me.
For years, I allowed it.

For years, I marked the date.
August 19.
Years later, I had a silly twat walk out on me,
On the same day. Your day.
I said, dumb twat doesn’t even get her own day.
Hurts me like a rookie.
Easily forgotten.

It carried on for years.
Your memory,
And then a stab.
Until the day that I realized
That you just aren’t a very nice person.

I had already seen that truth about myself.

Not sure which I remember.
Do I remember you?
Do I remember the pain?
Or do I just recall that I don’t hurt anymore.

At least there was an Us to break.
I wonder what would have happened if you had been Gwen.

This is excellent. I would publish it in a major magazine. Of course, as per the Rory KGB, this means I also approve of how you cut your toenails and whether you prefer mustard on turkey sandwiches.

Really, quite good. Chomsky would agree. So would Moe The Zun.

( . )( . )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

This is excellent. I would publish it in a major magazine. Of course, as per the Rory KGB, this means I also approve of how you cut your toenails and whether you prefer mustard on turkey sandwiches.

Really, quite good. Chomsky would agree. So would Moe The Zun.

( . )( . )

Thank you very much. And thank you for reading my scribblings. I had a good time with it, too. Have. I need to work on a more disciplined dedication to creating. But it feels too - structured.


I'm certain that there only person pleased with how I cut my toenails is me. My days of being a potential foot model are long past, but I did have good feet for decades. And I'm not a fan of turkey, sandwiches or otherwise. I am excellent at cleaning the bathroom and getting dust out of corners.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

This is raw, powerful writing. Really strong, really good.

Thank you very much!!! For what I can see here, coming from you, that means something.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

It doesn't fit in the challenge, so:


Thoughts


It’s true, says Psyche.
I know, says Brain.
You’re a failure, says Psyche.
No I’m not, says Brain.
It’s important, says Psyche.
It’s just fluff, says Brain.
They’ll hate us, says Psyche.
Never liked us, says Brain.
Does it matter, asks Psyche.
Not at all, says Brain.
Resignation, says Psyche
Acceptance, or maybe Grace, says Brain.

 

[Piscator]

We or at least those of us old fogies who still watch TV
have seen those commercials about toe fungus.
and well I think I've got it, but am too embarrassedssed
to see the doctor - he's seen my ass but not my
toenails - yet and the typo's not intentional just an AI flip
as I forgot to turn off the autospellcheck
but anyway I think I'll head out to the deck and trim
my toenails just in case it helps as the stuff in the commercials
didn't.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

We or at least those of us old fogies who still watch TV
have seen those commercials about toe fungus.
and well I think I've got it, but am too embarrassedssed
to see the doctor - he's seen my ass but not my
toenails - yet and the typo's not intentional just an AI flip
as I forgot to turn off the autospellcheck
but anyway I think I'll head out to the deck and trim
my toenails just in case it helps as the stuff in the commercials
didn't.

Just make sure you have them inspected by Those Who Micromanage when you are done, please.


Or else, the gulags . . . .

 

[Piscator]

I’ll never use the “F” word again

I promised you forever
caught up in a moment
of passion which passed
when the claws of reality
retracted

My promise a broken
fragment of passion passing
forever’s only for fairytales
there never was happily ever after
and I can only apologize
and swear I’ll never use
the “F” word
again

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

Excellent. I would publish it if I were an editor.

( O )( O )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

You and your colossal need to be right



Who the fuck are you kidding???
Who in the name of Allah
Do you think you are?
What have you done?
What the fucking Hell
Have you motherfucking done???
You think that you’re all that,
And a sack of chips, too?
I doubt that the pigs
Would condescend to eat
Your rotting putrid corpse.





I may have been grumpy when this fell off my fingers . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Sunday morning


Sunday morning, gone out walking.
It’s early. Lights slants in,
Whiter than yellow.
Smells of cut grass, cut wet,
Clumps lying in the yards.
It’s been a wet month.
Train in the distance,
Birds chirp, and two geese
Honking as they pass over.
National cemetery,
Some guy named Sylvester,
WW2 vet died in his 40s.
Old concrete walks and curbs,
Some new where they patched.
Colored stripes to mark
Underground utilities.
Old asphalt, some patches.
Few people and fewer cars.
A runner passes, speaks.
Most don’t.
A new city project,
Some urban planner’s
Bright Idea.
Brainchild of the supposed elite.
I cut down a side street.
Woman owns a Roadrunner.
It's under a tarp, but
I can see aluminum drag wheels below it.
My friend is on her front porch.
We speak, she wishes me a good day.
She doesn't say, "have a blessed day."
I loathe that.
Another project over there,
Behind the fence,
Just starting up.
And another down in the bottom,
Large drainage,
Something with the railroad there.
Renovating apartments here,
Dragging on too long.
Always about money . . . .
Progress, they say,
whoever "they" are.
They never ask, they just do.
And the park down at the creek,
Not far from the river.
Goats in a pen.
We always speak.
Blue heron in the concrete sluiceway,
Fishing.
I speak, and s/he takes a bit of umbrage.
I walk on.
Dew in the grass still,
Reflective tiny orbs.
A beetle crawl past.
Why on the sidewalk?
I’m sure to let him go.
I climb the hill.
It’s downhill out and uphill back.
Doing this long enough,
I have enough wind for it.
No aching calves, either.
Come November 23rd,
It will be dark now . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Thoughts . . . .



I do my best,
As well as I can do,
Not to hate or loathe.
I believe it a waste of my time
And a cancer on my soul.
So let us use annoyance
As our word of choice here.
Much less bitter,
Hate is absent,
No seething, no resentment.
What is annoying
Is having a
Good Creative Thought.
Then.
But can’t/don’t write it.
And poof!
There it went.
I do believe they cycle back,
And that might be mere
Wishing and hoping.
Sometimes, maybe.
So when I can write,
I scratch about in the vicinity
In the hopes of digging out
A few grains of Truth
From the Truth that escaped me.
Truly annoying.
Maybe I should just get up,
Get out of bed next time it happens
And write what my spirit directs.
Then I shall embrace the adage,
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Entertained to Death



Some guy said,
A long time ago,
To be as a little child,
Yeah, I know who,
So don't tell me.
Motherfucker.
If you don’t know,
Then you need to look it up.
I hope to remain
Like that little child.
I go out most mornings
Interested in seeing
What the day looks like.
I try to look
For all the things
That might surprise me.
Like seeing a hot rod
Or some old car
Or piece of machinery
Sometimes even people
Although people can be
Difficult with their load
Of very selfish crap,
And their tiny egos,
But mostly their raging
Inconsideration of anyone
Or anything around them.
Driving out in early morning,
The clouds are fascinating
Decorations for the sky.
Light, shadows, dark spots,
All that poetic bullshit.
Do it sometime.
Go out and look, and
Have your own experience.
When I started doing that,
Life got more interesting,
And therefore more entertaining.
May it continue to entertain me
Until my last morning
Facing Southwest.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Writing



You’re my whore.
I love caressing you,
rubbing against you
Holding you down.
Fucking you,
Using you like
The cumdumpster you are.
Then Life has something to say.
I wander off
And do that for awhile.
I ignore you.
I know others use you.
I know you wait.
I know that you know
That I’ll be back.
Yes, I return
To the girl who understands
The girl who doesn’t judge me harshly
Finding me lacking,
Or wanting, or just plain pathetic.
You don’t nag, and
You don’t whine.
You let me grab your ass
when I walk in the door,
Good for you that you approve
Because I’m going to do it.
I’m going to take you.
Pushing my tongue down your throat.
Groping your boobs,
Tearing your clothes to reveal you
So I can force myself on you.
Into you,
You needy fucking slut.
I’m going to fuck you
And you’re going to like it.
I should move you in,
Making you mine, always
Marry you, maybe
But I can’t seem to commit to you.
Pity that . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

LMNOP



You’re at the stove
Cooking supper.
On your game,
You’re a good partner,
Sometimes.
A better lover
When it suits you.
I walk up behind you,
And place my hands on your stomach
And gently pull you to me.
Huskily, you whisper,
God damn it!
That’s so sexy, I say.
My body betrays me,
You answer.
I felt you inhale,
A bit sharply.
My nipples got hard
All of a sudden.
I move my hand
Closer to the snap of your pants.
No!!! I’m making supper!!!
You could turn off the stove.
No!!! Later.
Where’s the adventure in that?

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Calypso, you Naughty Boy!!!



Big equine goof.
Big bad bully.
There are four of you lot.
Two are taller,
Like 17 hands or more.
Two or shorter,
Like 16 hands or fewer.
You and your red buddy
Are the tall pair.
And you make sure
That the shorter boys know it.
It rains.
It happens regularly.
The pasture gets wet
And you have options.
The big red barn
Has a good roof.
The patter of raindrops
On said good roof
Makes a pleasing sound
Unless it’s teeming.
Then it sounds like warfare.
There’s a red horse
Toward the rear
and a big brown horse
Standing across the doorway,
Sideways,
Blocking it effectively.
Two short horses
Are outside in the rain
Getting soaked.
Did they get in
And you chased them out?
Or did you get there first
And kept them out?
It doesn’t matter,
Results being the same.
I made you go in once
So they could come inside too.
If I had stayed,
They could have stayed.
I went in the house,
And you must have chased them out
You played the bully card.
I think that is,for them,
the only kind of card you held in your “hand.”

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Dreams . . . .


My dreams, too, have been out in all the weather.
My dreams are like some of these old cars I collect.
Some were collected and left outside too long.
They leaked rainwater in places and it collected,
wearing off the paint and speeding the decay of the body.
The old car people call it cancer, that kind of rust.
It's hard to make a good one without making it from 2 or 3 carcasses.
The dreams change.
Two or three seem to combine.
There are those which rusted away.
Some sit and wait the craftsman's hand to pull to pieces,
massages the bits, and reassemble them to be used and driven.


Taking them to shows is optional.


I need another horse, too . . . .