writing live

[sir_goodhead]

lol, i so want to pooh-pooh this poem

lovin the frilly flames, dude

ChitButty, you are more than welcome to pooh-pooh anything I write. I regard any criticism delivered in an honest, reasonable manner, an honor. And I agree, frilly flames is a cute bottom-type reference. Hope his top gets a laugh as well.

 

[bflagsst]

... MY silly attempt at a pseudo-poem ...

I'm not hiding, never was. Just funny how big a pile of Janus-types are still lumped together like the very "shit" you refer to. I hope I can get it off my nice shoes.

Nice way to welcome a newbie to the forum. Thanks.

...


Any further attempt to disrupt the good nature of this forum, as it has been lately, my be directed to my PM, my email, or in any manner you decide is better than stinking up the place as you are so apt to do on occasion.

regards-

Roger

Oh, it was just your attempt at a 'pseudo poem', you must be an intellectual to be writing 'pseudo poems' and giving Post-PoMo critiques delivered at no one in particular. "Still lumped together" "as it has been lately" and also "a newbie to the forum", you must be the all-time king of lurkers...or just some alt who previously wrote shit poems under a more familiar name. I'm such a limp dick homo, I'm gonna eat a steak and yell and stomp my feet at the computer monitor to prove you wrong, best friend! Oh, I'm so pissed, I should've PMed Sir Goodhead my rage, we could've been Internet lovers.

The queen is here, I must be queer
to openly opine, and always take the time
to tell sir goodhead why, a poem
doesn't always have to rhyme...boohoohoo

 

[Epmd607]

Oh, it was just your attempt at a 'pseudo poem', you must be an intellectual to be writing 'pseudo poems' and giving Post-PoMo critiques delivered at no one in particular. "Still lumped together" "as it has been lately" and also "a newbie to the forum", you must be the all-time king of lurkers...or just some alt who previously wrote shit poems under a more familiar name. I'm such a limp dick homo, I'm gonna eat a steak and yell and stomp my feet at the computer monitor to prove you wrong, best friend! Oh, I'm so pissed, I should've PMed Sir Goodhead my rage, we could've been Internet lovers.

The queen is here, I must be queer
to openly opine, and always take the time
to tell sir goodhead why, a poem
doesn't always have to rhyme...boohoohoo

Looks like you've been Rogered. Harharhar! Roger is so Post-Po-Pomo. He plays hungry, hungry hippos with Tony Romo, and cuts cracks in our butts, cuz we're Internet newbie hating homos. He's such a n00b, man, he's been here for ages, and he was really liking the ambiance, the drapes and curtains, the tapestries -- but then you went and fucked it up!

 

[AoNoDoY]

mmm, i want to put it in you
my, to have a poem
i did dug right
give that man a phone

mmm, i want to peel my dick off you
pimp your familiar name
lurk in the textacollectual
steak house
sipping keyboard sauce
from intercollectual
new house
it's sounding all the same

crack heads
crack butts
really kings and 'stries
internet hating drapes and crapes
he takes it all in stride
crack heads
crack butts
pistol pissed on pete
new bee movie
steak and egg and fries

boo boo hoo
all the way home
crack kings
butt steaks
in the mossy loam
the queen is curt
curt come home
boo boo crack bee
internet pm
the queen is cut
the blood is me
curt came foam
new bee pistol pee
steak and moss and fries
boo bee who me
monitor lizard lies

 

[Epmd607]

Monitor lizards using scissors to cut out chicken gizzards,
Wizards travel through blizzards to see Eddie Izzard

 

[bflagsst]

In Congress

In the mouth of the mob
mantra means simple things,
formula syllable shibboleth,
new shapes gleaned for adspace,
and well put punditry

The veterans have been rotten
under circumstances, the board's
breathing easy under feet pleading,
more about the war and the dollars spent

 

[butters]

dangerous rainbows
threaten village and city
cascading light paints us
all shades and hues
can't make up my mind if it's solar or
deeper,
some bright affinity
under the skin

diversity mocks
the issue of colour
racists stumble wild-eyed
open
confused

 

[AoNoDoY]

watching the rainbow parade
from the metal roof
we sat down
put our back against
the cornice
against the parade
sparked our smoke

in the crowd
we drank spiked lemonade
and shouted at the floats
at the men in cages
naked chests
we shouted at the funny men
and the queer women
too loud
all kinds of fucked up

later, in a bar
a man,
a writer,
told me he approved
of her
you're lucky, he said

when i first met her
i asked to see
what she was wearing
under her dress
just 'cuz i wanted to see

no, she said
indignant
she would wear
tiny little nighties at night
but ask to see what
she was wearing underneath
before going out
and suddenly she was shy
suddenly she was a lady
which was my first suspicion

 

[butters]

that sounds so
dirty
in a semi-savant kind of way
intercollectual
textacollectual
like a sneer
like a soucop of disdain
a hot-house, not-house, not-got-of-this-house house
a knot of forgetmenots got basted and boasted
a shabby soufflé with a price to make your eyes water
served up in thimbles
with a 20% tip slapped on top

and yet to fall between the cracks
to slide into the new
for that brief and shining moment -
we'd most of us give our eye teeth for

but let's not fancy it up so
ponce about with labels designed more to exclude
than embrace
face to the pavement
we're all peering through
hoping to catch that small glimpse
of something we're unable to name

 

[Maria2394]

the crone's left arm

The crone's left arm has
a middle finger with vein-plumped
baggy skin saggy skin catching every
G-force it can as it dips and yaws

I try to imagine her human as she crosses
center line. Double yellow, I cannot pass
her ten year old Toyota wobbles
backfires then expels a rich odor of gas.

The crone's middle finger extended, somehow
reminded me that my own hands are lonely
with no babies to burp nor cookies
to bake, no oils to apply nor potions to stir.

It seemed as if she was leading me
in her rear view mirror I could see
her own hateful stare. Was I riding
your ass Or do you simply take offense

at my old blue Ford? I got a great
deal, practically a steal. Why don't you pack
that digit in before it's tangled, before
you're strangled, by your own road rage
my Dear

 

[WickedEve]

god I love you girl
leaf bound
you always rise

sighs

damn, girl.
gorgeous

Thank you so much.


The Importance of Laundry

I know the strength of silk,
its calming threads.
Dried cloth is familiar,

but unlike those heated clothes
you are no longer warm

against my belly.
I am wrung out
in my folds of therapy
and saved by the grace of garments.

 

[WickedEve]

I dye my face blue,
leave behind the subtitles.
Ah, Italian films.

I speak bravo,
know the mention of madame.
Crucifix is stunningly aching
in the morgue of my night.

He misses her. Miss me,
my penniless man.

 

[WickedEve]

Switches dash
on Winter's Run,
where we are swift
behind. Let them speed
after their tosses. No hurry

for us. Bad weather rides
in on ice burros.
We might as well chill
on down the road.

 

[butters]

(are we all silhouettes against the sun? i've written this as a singular, and it wasn't even about a poet to begin with, but it begs the question is this how we all are as poets?is this how artists are in all genres?)


up there
in the blue
your dark shape hurts my eyes
silhouette against the sun

looking down
you're entranced
your own shadow races
wavering over the dunes

and truly
it's far more interesting

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Panic attack world crashing
onto your head
distant voices make no sense
can't see
can't hear
breathe dammit breathe
heart pumping
dizzy dizzy
reach for water
glass crashing
breathe girl for god's sake breathe
blackness
..........
a breath .....air

 

[butters]

one day i looked up at you
saw that i
were the dunes
you relied on my ripples
to make you appear
fascinating

 

[drown]

his
was to be
a marionette master
under the guise of
the shaman.

they lined the box
to be in the show;

eating off of the offered trays
and
seeing what they wanted to hear;

a song,
so sweet in the treats it offered,
that the audience dwindled
for the played.

as time,
lost temptress,
gave way
to the gorging feast,
his pockets filled with their nothingness
and their heads
with his whim.

she admired him,
his game;

from afar.

she'd play circe.

no strings
to her hold...

and patience,
dear patience
as her guide...

his work
would be hers
at her whim
then be done;

and they
would be
none
the done-wiser.

 

[butters]

ah, circe,
herb-wise and generous
with her cheese and honeyed meal
so sweet to serve up magic on a plate
how apt - pigs to pigs
ah - not so fair, those words
sailors ways are not the most refined, but pigs?
perhaps it was a porkie of a tail -
no mind

just as well the one kept wits
about his precious hide and
made off to warn Odysseus

and Herme smiled
bestowed a gift
to change the pace
to change the outcome of the tail
and Batman gleaned his Robin's cry of
Holy Moly!
something new i learned.

 

[butters]

Pasiphaë, Pasiphaë,
they really did a job on you;
where was Max Clifford when you needed a publicist?

 

[butters]

so monday morning nice and early
get to spread and have my girly
bits examined, probed and swabbed

thanks goodness i don't do their job

 

[butters]

i hate getting my bp taken. it makes me grumpy

well who'd've thunk? my bp's up
it's been a week of stress and strain
arm near damned blew up as cuff
inflated causing pain enough to
make me bite my lip before
i'd swear and tear it from its perch.
surely it's not supposed to hurt?

 

[butters]

oh, neato, they want blood as well.
here - have a vein, or two, or three!
take 'em all, that's fine, that's swell
stab them with your stainless steel

i know, i know, it's im por tant
and really i don't even mind
it's only 'cos my bp's up
that these small things i seem to find

a nnoy ing!

 

[bronzeage]

Why am I smiling?

Because a little girl in a purple dress,
with a blue ribbon in her hair
is crying like it’s the worst it has ever been.
It is, for her little head
and her life to short to grow the cushion
that slows the world as it comes at us.
Tell her of an earthquake with a million dead
and she’s a cat, concerned only with your moving lips.
But, she is two years old with memories
less than half that time
and only one thought, “I can see it. Why can’t I have it?”
as Daddy carries her from the store,
reprimanding as he walks.
A wasted effort.

 

[butters]

i went to write a poem
but somehow we
got
lost

 

[butters]

each key stroked resonates
small dark-bright notes
punctuate the white expanse
sounds
in shapes
2D music
symbols of noise

can i make writing
music to your ears?