Pleasing

I, with reckless disregard
for the bile collecting
in my conscience,
settle into a familiar mindless
rhythm I've heard called making love.

This is, at best, playing at love,
as children play house.

This is not even making amends,
cannot be construed as making,
but unmaking.

Your touch-
my god this cannot be pleasure
as you brush away my dead outer layer,
this senseless shell and husk of
memories which litter sheets,
carpets, clothes, drains,-
my new skin I wear like
an infant in a baptismal font
abandoned by its priest.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

Gatortail

We beat it to death
with lead pipes,
crushed its reinforced hydraulic
skull and severed
its whipsnap tail,
and we fried it.
Then we dined
like island royalty,
blood of natives on our hands,
hot on the sacrificial rock,
sizzling in the pan slicked with fat.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

Night Sounds

Night Sounds

We sing and dance in our tribal bliss
and release a songbird from our midst,
out of firelight and into the oblivion of
the empty night. A young boy will often
assume the worst.

We know that the water is deadly- not the
water, no, but what is in it, alligator, green which
yields red and steals a young boy away.

We know that hogs root in these woods,
gobbling grub, and that they scream like
women in fear when an alligator steals them away.

We know all this, but when the discordant
cry of a hog in throes pierces the night
as a gator pierces its belly, a young boy
is just bound to fear for that hours-gone
song-bird, or hours as it always seems to a young boy.

We sing and dance in our tribal bliss
as the songbird perches and joins back in
on that refrain- a young boy is bound to jump
for joy, and riverbilly's bound to keep rockin' tonight.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

"Can we just flash forward..."

Can we just flash forward
to the petty, sweaty, fumbling,
tumbling grope and grab
presaged by your first breathy
grunt of "You're so hot" in my ear,
warm moist exhalation and chin stubble
just as irritating as this untoward advance?

I know myself all too well-
I have lived this night
too many times and
I am so fucking tired
of swallowing my nausea
of subsuming my pride
of sacrificing my self
to testosterone's
hair-trigger
and of being repulsed
by any touch the morning after.
My cup runneth over.
Old news.
I quit.
Who's next?

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 24, 2009)

Toward Iconoclasm

This first legitimate taste of truth,
a scant sip from nectar's vein,
sates not, but stings.

You, who are lotus of flesh,
who are nectar of blood,
blood of aubergine hue,
you, in your giving of gifts,
play Siren, Scylla, and saint.

Yon Doppelganger:
     as Lazarus, in your solitude sleep;
     as Midas, ruin whatever you may touch;
     as Pilate, cruciate pain bestow;
     and as Eros, let your arrow go.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 5th, 2009)

Someday Morning

Mine eyes arise
to the Someday morning light.
I do not know when I am
and his arm
across my chest subsumes
any sense I may have had of where.
I am tightly wrapped in my head,
my sheets, and some ephemeral worldview.
Someday is the atheist's sabbath,
no one day any more holy than the rest.

The first experience of each day
is rebirth by radiation piercing
past the thin flesh
which hides one sixth of oneself.
That I am changed is evident.
With each breath I exhale some
dead part of myself, an exhausted
vestige of yesterday's person. I have had
enough of that body. I am happy to
pass it on, not because I must but because
one man's trash is another's life-sustaining
treasure. And this is why I am never afraid
to take the next breath. No death is so
life-affirming as my own.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 7th, 2009)

In-Class Prompt beginnings

None of us knew the colour of the sky, the delicate blend of post-storm hues, though that there had been a heavy storm we were fully aware. We had marched through this desolate cityscape for days, wrists bound tight with thick kudzu vines torn from this skyscraper or that. Our blindfolds began to itch and stink following the torrential rains, the strips of leather rancid with sweat and stormwater. Our eyes glanced level; there was nowhere else for an eye to drift, no reason to cast looks in any direction.

Slavers were far too common now. The city police were more concerned with feeding their families than upholding the laws of a dead institution. What justice can there be when a man must watch his infant simultaneously shrivel and swell from the ravages of malnutrition? These changing times brought on waves of change. And so some had to adapt, to respond to the pressures of an irresponsible anarchy.

Project Mayhem had been so thorough in its execution that Durden was practically deified. The day he burned the original copy of the Constitution had been the tipping point, the inception of a new religion in this poor excuse for a nation, a faith in chaos that birthed a future of

(written from the perspective of a great-great(whatevergreats)-granddaughter of Marla Singer. Fight Club woooo! more to come very soon. i'm intrigued by myself)

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Why do I try to write love poetry? (scraps of something in progress)

Love may not sing of itself,
Nor answer calls towards its providence;
And love may not, in its silent
Arduous climb, make footholds
Where none exist.
Love gives no
Guarantee of safety,
Nor offers its hand to help
Others along.

For the life of love
Is the mountain itself,
And its cragged footholds
Are all the promises of safety
One could need.
It is the mute life of quiet assurance,
The self-satisfaction of sharing
In the comfort of the hand which
Proffers it-
((((more poetry here))))

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 29th, 2009)

Whose Theophany?

Placid clicks,
nails on mulch on soil
on roots on crust
core and mantle,
escalate to
frantic scratches
over oak-bark
over wooden
flesh and blood.
Frantic scratches of escape.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 26th, 2009)


(written during creative writing class exercise, will be expanded)

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Motif

The stars too often shoot
straight out of our grasp,
and we can reach the sky
just as soon as it falls.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 12, 2009)