writing live

[Tathagata]

......

 

[unapologetic]

Thoughts careening
Meaning who knows what
Misery making and pleasure taking
Second guessing everything
Juxtaposing the angst of youth
With the self-assurance of age
I'm trying too hard and
Should just
Let it be

 

[Angeline]

she brought her new breasts
a 6 pack of Smutty Nose Ale
and purple blouse
slashed to her sternum
wide open
a post mortem revelation
"What do you make of the tits Doctor?"

the real fun
was in NOT staring
she was on her hind legs,spinning plates and
barking the alphabet
I continued to discuss
the songs of Klaus Nomi
with an aging hippie
drunk on Pina Coladas

as i went for a beer she said
" You should try one of my little Smutty Nose"
I answered" I'd love to try your smutty nose...and I wouldn't say they were little"

There
we were both happy

I suppose I could have just said " Nice tits"
But where's the poetry in that?

perfect.

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[tungtied2u]

I gave you a computer.
I wanted to give you the world,
but the mechanics were beyond me.

Too many loose screws,
too few megabytes,
complicated interfacing.

Thank God for memory,
moments captured by neurons,
electric, and unforgettable

 

[darkerdreamer]

Phone calls received before 9AM
serve to be midly annoying or traumatic,
on some occassions proving to have dual functionality.

I teeter on the edge of my sanity,
and you totter on about the morning paper.

I watch the french vanilla sink to the bottom of the coffee cup,
swallowed up in the blackness of the rooster brew.
I feel a bit like french vanilla right now,
that hollow telephone ring a strong and unsatisfying blend.

You turn on the tv and remind me it will rain today,
at least that's what the weathman said.

It certainly feels like rain today.

 

[darkerdreamer]

Swallow me hollow: whole without soul.
Hole in my sole speaks more to my personality
than monotone words and petty actions.
Monotone verbs are wayward checkpoints,
your bitter pronouns the vast desert,
dessert on less formal occassions.

 

[Tathagata]

Letter from Juarez

.....

 

[UnderYourSpell]

You limped into my life
but I made you strong
no need for little piils
now mu love we have ecstasy.

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[sophieloves]

the fever in my loins
is only matched
by those in my head and my heart

missing him

 

[sophieloves]

i would edit that to

the fever in my loins
matched only by those
in head and heart

missing him

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[sophieloves]

when the bitches bark
at the intruder in their pack
do they think off i'll slink
or roll over, belly exposed?
their teeth are blunt.
if i were just a dog
i'd fuck 'em,
show who's boss,

but i'm not
and this bitch has sharper teeth
for their own soft underbellies

 

[miss_mystery]

Tonight, the carpet beneath us
scratches my calves, the small of my back
curved outwards so that my body
forms a curlicue around your body
in the shape of a letter, a vowel,
maybe 'o', or possibly 'u'.

The bed lies a made-up virgin
in the next room, ambiguous and
empty of the stories
we might write there.

***

ick, ick, ick, ick. This is not a fun exercise. Well, it could prove to be inspirational, but it makes my skin crawl. Leaving me wondering if I could revise this into anything remotely worth the pain of leaving first words around for other folks to read 'em.

 

[beautyandwine]

Deity (#4)

Sigh.

I wish
these hands
weren't so
clumsy.

They ache
to kneel
at your altar,
to caress
your scalp,
to glide
across
your chest,
worship
your thighs,
and claim
your prize.

But I,
I feel so
insecure,
never fully
knowing
how to
touch you.

 

[sophieloves]

mouth to eye
eye to eye
on the brink of him spilling
eye contact
mind-feeding

 

[BonsaiBeauty]

Think Piece on Fat

I love women with meat on their bones. I adore the natural curves and shape of a woman who is at home in her own skin, who loves herself (imperfections and all) completely and utterly. I love women who have a little pot belly and don't try to suck it in all the time.

I hate the stereotypes that our culture uses to make women feel less sexy, beautiful, intelligent, accepted if they are not a size zero. The starvation of women is as much a tool of the patriarchy to control them as bonding the feet was in ancient China or forcing them to cover their bodies from head to foot with burkahs in the Middle East.

The media, the culture, the corporations are all in a big conspiracy to keep women hungry, filled with self-loathing, and size-obsessed in order to keep them from focusing on the stuff that really matters: happiness, love, harmony, growth, insight, evolution.

The power of any stereotype is measured by the extent to which the stereotyped group actually internalizes the wrongly held assumptions about itself. Such is the case with fatness. Most women spend their lives obsessing over their bodies to the extent that they hate themselves if they do not measure up to some pie-in-the-sky ideal created by the patriarchy.

Until women start accepting themselves as they are without paying heed to these stereotypes and methods of bondage, they will remain a sub-class, a minority without power or hope.

 

[wildsweetone]

...

He calls me on my cell phone
voice barely broken,
I can feel the shadow of acne
in the tremble
of his quiet deep tones,
that smooth Hi that ends in a smile.
I don't know his looks
but read his face
under my hardened fingertips,
read his mind
from the worn ruts in mine.
I'm tempted, sorely
and roll back the conversation
to make sure
it wasn't a trendy clothed smirk
in disguise.

 

[wildsweetone]

...

She'd stand at the end of the street
dressed in pyjamas, holey
overcoat thrown over the top,
black gumboots on one end,
electric-frizzed red hair on the other
and she'd scream blue murder.
The hills would piss her off
by throwing her howl back
until the noise mingled
and we forgot who started
the stampede of sound.
It didn't matter,
all the dogs would join in
and it wasn't until the babies did too
that she'd stomp back down the hill
to her house with the rotten plank
under the front window,
the cacophony of rural wreckage
parting in her path.

 

[wildsweetone]

..

One day he was a walking talking plumber
the next he was flat on a slab
in the undertakers' room,
being cleaned out and filled
with false blood
so relatives could kiss his cold cheeks
and bless his middle-aged body
with their tears.
I half expected him
at each corner,
each twisted hour
and when the jokes poured
as pure as the mud on his boots,
I prayed he'd shout the punch line.
I've since realised his passing
was the last joke.

 

[wildsweetone]

...

Sometimes I paint you yellow,
I steal your youth and portray
your autumning as your aged touch
fingers the garden.
My eyes squeeze tightly shut
and I wish you drowned, gone
so that I may be showered in diamonds.
They too will be cut away,
no longer dangling from tree limbs in the dark
reflecting your slow death.
I paint you yellow,
push the black and white away,
and pray.