The Surreptitious Extravagance Challenge

[Lauren Hynde]

It's a spin-off from the Exquisite Corpse thread. The challenge consists in taking one of the phrases that resulted of that thread and build a poem around it. Be sure to include one of these verses:

• Demented ice tramples undemanded blades, closely.
• The opaque ember distributes faulty creatures, superbly.
• The complacent prodigy walks the brave trapeze, silently.
• The young arch eschews archaic doors, sadly.
• Ancient bowls fanaticize sullen mothers, constantly.
• The ancient spraint broke the dark angst, merrily.
• The fugoidal ring inflated the unfamiliar poison, daily.
• Calm turnips lasciviously consume the noisy lash.
• Blessed pie, purring at the matted largesse. Really!
• The hungry cat flies nearly cyclonic sentences.
• The precocious suede pinched the magenta breath, slowly.
• Swift miasma, daringly fries the bespectacled pervert.
• Oh, surreptitious extravagance: to excavate green damsels, daily.
• Unintentional door dreams about the delusional road, intently.
• The solar fountain disco dances under careless lights, decisively.
• The slippery double agent slyly fakes a clear truce.
• The dashing hound sips the elevated pogo sticks, distinctly.

Feel free to get rid of the adverbs, if you want. There are no other guidelines: form, length or theme are up to you.

Have fun.

 

[Icingsugar]

Alright, let's play Spot The Corpse in this one.



-------

Oh god, I am lost.
How she flaunt her grazes
flex her luscious limbs
and purrs like a kitten
by the fireplace that
glows it's embers onto
her cream and silk skin,
and further into my spine.

How the lavender lavished
hair flows over dangerous
delicious shameless shoulders
directing every futile attempt
to savour that smile
into slipping sliding into
that haunting cleavage
held together by nothing
but the curve of her arms.

And how she talks,
in feline growls and
eloquent elaborations
just out of my wit's reach.
The hungry cat flies
nearly cyclonic sentences,
cyclic cybernetic psychobabble
making so much no-sense nonsense
that my soul gasps for air
just below the surface.

Oh, how she slides.
In three panting panther moves
my sense of location is lost
in a universe of lavender
and ember lit skin travelling
sensationally slow, soft,
sliding, sensory salvation.

The flames light up in her
Atlantis blue diamonds
and all chance of an escape
I would never dream of anyway
is now just as lost
as I have been forever
and a minute after
the liquid gold
that flows from her lips
first trickled through.

-------

 

[champagne1982]

Bride

precocious suede
pinched
the magenta breath,
slowly she drew another.

vivacious linen
cramping
her fuscia style,
achingly she felt again.

traipsing velvet
along a red
carpeted aisle.

well over a mile
in ill-fitting shoes,
tight corset,
and white satin.

for love.

 

[Linbido]

Hey, I like those!

Ice goes for erotica, Carrie for romance...

It seems I slipped in somewhere between.

A bit wordy perhaps, and it really need proper punctuation, but I'll give a toss about that later.

(damn, wasn't I supposed to take a break from this?)

final slip into

it happens, sometimes
a freudian slip
of dimensional proportions
setting rocks in motion
through conversation
and a careless word too much
pivoting the course
opening gateways
to new, unimaginable worlds
and all new paths of fate

yes, it happens
and now it did
what she said?

doesn't matter,
but it lit the spark
and awoke the butterflies
and shone light from
a so far unheard of option
through this new doorway
onto his stunned face

so now she wonder
"where will this end?"
just as much as the adventurer
who boldly steps through
the unintentional door,
dreams about the delusional road,
intently debating, battling
her left brain against her right
and getting nowhere fast

so he takes another step
by proxy of a fingertip
in an open palm
that she know should,
but will not let
pull away

because it happened this time
the doorway is open
the rocks are in motion
and nothing will ever
be the same again

 

[champagne1982]

Sestina on Ice

We're sure the hockey star is demented.
He has to be, the way he shoots down the ice,
Unconcerned of all others that he tramples.
Consideration for teammates, undemanded,
Just that he sharpens his blades.
The scouts watch him closely.

They play man on man and follow closely,
The damage he inflicts, demented.
Watch him fly in leather boots and metal blades,
His slapshot echoes over the ice,
Every goalie's question undemanded,
By the puck. The hockey herd tramples.

Like a herd of stampeding cattle the offense tramples.
The commentator calls play by play closely.
Linesmen's icing whistles undemanded.
The ref looks at them with his eyes glaringly demented.
They slow down play as the puck bounces from their blades.
It rebounds over the glass, off the ice.

He takes his stance at center ice,
As the puck drops the opposing forward tramples
His team's defensive stance, digging in their blades.
These guys match each other, closely.
It's enough to make the sane fan demented,
As each unanswered hurt is retaliation undemanded.

The fan has his questions, on his lips, undemanded.
As his favorite players leave the ice.
Excited commentators call them all demented
When the loser, the victorious tramples.
The coaches watch the game tapes closely,
For each imagined infraction in the stick blades.

The star runs his thumb along his skate blades.
His need for sharpening left undemanded
Of the kid who cares for his equipment, closely
Guarding secrets on and off the ice.
The uwary in his haste he tramples.
He showers off the one they call demented.

Perhaps to be demented a boy need only don the blades,
He unremorsefully tramples with apology undemanded,
For when you play on the ice, watch your back, closely.

Demented ice tramples undemanded blades, closely.

 

[OT]

do you

remember the
solar fountain disco dances
under careless lights
me in
two tone bell bottoms
covering platform shoes
you
in a green mini-skirt
covering nothing

I do

 

[Guest]

The slippery slope of double truths
Finds the agent in the Janus mask
slyly slipping the borders.
Fakes a foreign face
and a clear route
to the ultimate truce.

 

[echoes_s]

Subterranean Misplaced

A silent moon hides tonight
veiled from creation
Hushed forests sway gently,
murmuring, uncertain.
An aura of unease rooted,
the unfamiliar about,
nothing roused.

Subterranean misplaced
creatures of flight
concealed to the world of day
encircle their conflagration,
ceremonial just is calling,
natures respect given.
A song, soft at first, a lowly hum,
rises to a piercing shrill.

The opaque ember distributes
faulty creatures, superbly dressed,
to be sparked in glowing embers.
Singeing their masks, wings, essence,
when the dance is frenzied,
exhausted, finalized.
The song complete
and transformation
to be preservation,
they rise as one with the sun.

 

[jthserra]

I got a little carried away...

The Pies We Despise

It’s apples that pray, bemoaning sugar:
“Blessed pie,” purring at the matted largesse, really
they ooze in sickly sweet, liquid squeeze

these sliced, diced and spiced, pressed as filling:
the meat in between, the structure, the form
supporting the doughy crust in pectin columns.

Buttery foundations absorb the heat
while lavish granular sweetness, sugary white
permeates the mix, its excess flabs the edge.

Wedged, pliant peaches yield to bruising pokes
as steam softened gelatinous flows slowly fill
the precocious suede pinched magenta breath

breathing loose flesh, bit by bit from the pit
discarded stones, the lonely pile grows, aromas
catch an air above lightly browning flakes.

Mistakes are baked before their eyes, into pies
as ancient bowls fanaticize sullen mothers, constantly
clinging to lingering fruit: the perfect cling peach.

Each thought, each word, every consideration
shuns the tongues, the tips taste only sweet
yet crave, the base, the burning deep sour

shower of key lime and its balmy citrus echo:
“Oh, surreptitious extravagance to excavate green.”
Damsels daily grate the toughened rind in great

southern bellish recipes with a hellish fervor to
seize the hour, to fix the mix to set in cold
old iceboxes on their long, drawn Floridian lawns.

Spawned, the swift miasma daringly fries the bespectacled
pervert, his pocketed hands search for banana cream
in short, distinct strokes as glasses fog to rhyme

sublime rhythms. He remembers another time:
the solar fountain disco dances under careless lights
and decisively he moans of her sweet potato pies

thighs pressed to his, locked, cocked and ready
steady, when the ancient spraint broke the dark angst
as merrily she flies with baked blackbirds to the sky.