|it's queer estate, bill
they're selling soil as souvenirs
and our rainbows never looked lonelier,
less photogenic, but get this--
they're going ahead with the festival;
they're dredging the cellar squid-pro-quo,
our kinky sugar tongued in the hole.
we should celebrate,
separate the movement of our thighs
from the moving thing that leaks
through the floorboards.
one last sleep before the news arrives,
one eye plum, bat-like, blanketed by fits of fever;
your gut is a cello so low
it shakes bugs off the branches.
who can say for sure if the dream has ended
or just begun?
sure we've sewn the apron strings to that suicidal barn
but we bonged heads under those leaky taps
until it was time to lug the body home.
do you remember?
i licked your feet at the door
as you noodled inside my merkin;
you knelt in the shavings
wearing nothing but mutton.
my mouth was dirty but I liked the floors clean.
you were stiff limbs in the kiln of our yellow bed,
all nog and fist up in them fish parts
squealing at the bosom.
i checked your trousers
waiting for love to roll off the menu,
did I want the rabbit or the lamb?
i took the wolf.
we knew beauty’s cruelty and crashed it
into our mouths; one smack for queer
and the other too shy for bruises.
i turned that penny over and over
tarnished in my palm,
and what were the prospects?
nothing but an off-kilter oven
and a beehive too big for bargaining,
yet still i stumble on your longer legs than yesterday
and my tits are still pruned by your bathwater tears,
golden and soft as you.
i know your balls, bill;
they're probably sinking to the ocean floor
of my heart’s small talk
and like salad you’d toss me for shore,
but don’t bite the hand that squeezes the worm donor.
in roman numerals you’d be archaic-romantic by now
but you’ll never be an oily colon
under my late clock.
you’re my only religion and I left you
on the lam of my alter-ego--
if you’re moving in I want you portly,
wine-soaked and hot
like back in the hose days, cruel and ravenous,
sloshing at the mouth.
17 Jan 16
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What happened to the house
Lovely j. A quick read for its length.
I don't know, it's for sale. I moved away years ago and my friend just told me the news. A lot of memories.
http://news.nationalpost.co m/arts/buffalo-bills-creepy-silence-of-the-lambs-house-is-for-sal e
Oh haha, thanks! No kidding, I looked at it after I posted and was a little shocked to see it was so long. Like bad long. I'm glad it was a quick ride though. :) yippeee
Pretty pricey all things considered
Nope, not bad long. There were a couple hiccups for me, but nothing worthy of voicing.
Hiccups are worthy.
I know right, spiderweb real estate with phantom poodles and you have to be a millionaire. Pshtt.
Nahhhh conniptions are worthy...hiccups just need a little water and fright.
Well come on over and sit down on my mutton gown and I'll tells you a story....
If it has to do with that...THING that killed my mom, I don't want to hear, gown or not.
maybe address 'bill' once or twice throughout, probably within the first 20.
You think? I know what you mean, the way it's been done before. I think the only place it'll work is at the end of line 2.
I do believe I'm being all octopussy about some of this, meaning I feel some parts are too close to me to remove at this point, but keeping them makes me have to try to fit them in and then it doesn't sound natural. It's still a baby in the yolk sac so give it time.
ha! 27 made me laugh. intriguing poem though I was hoping to move into the house at Amityville.
Ha! Glad you like the merkin Jamez!
The amityville house is haunted, but bill's house is breathing...and it has halitosis.
i address it. i addressed bill. it wasn't easy for him, he hates confrontations.
it didn't work within the first 20. don't mess with me or i'll knock your block off. :D
making a push for 'ramshackle' in l20. Praise-worthy
Hi sixty, You want me to change suicidal to ramshackle?
I don't know how that fits. Is this your first bill poem? There's a way about these things...lol
Let me look into it, I appreciate the suggestion. :)
Jen and bill, my favourite odd couple. Love, love the last stanza. Is it odd (or maybe creepy) that whenever there is mention of a serial killer, I think of you?
Haha, I suppose I have just ingrained that association in you, but it's not weird, I'm flattered, haha.
I should repost "my junk's a jewel" for you, I remember you went all Gacy on me in that one.
Read a great one awhile ago "serial killer whisperer".
Thanks for reading, Teri.
Thanks for the comment, I'm rewriting it now new.
great images in the poem, excellent natural turns, wonderful human sense of sight and great sounds. I love how you grabbed the images that were clear to your senses, and put all the down first.
My critique: I felt like line 15 introduced a new poem.
My critique would be to add maybe two more stanzas or one more to the after line 14 to go with the stanza before. You can return to the place and see what you get. I felt like the subject was changed at line 15, it went into a portrait poem.
My other suggestion would be to break the poem down from 1 to the 14th line and do a check for exploring at least 3 of the human senses. I get the visual and the mood of feeling tired and weary in the first stanzas, but I felt like there needed to other human senses explored, such as also touch and taste or hearing or smelling. I also felt like the poem should be spoken as in past tense.
I see you were writing a poem about an experience related to a festival, also what happened after the festival. But my suggestion would be a poem focused on your experience at the festival and a separate poem describing what happened after the festival.
agreed, my first bill poem, but grasshopper is stating to get it. Well done.
Thanks for taking an interest in the sequels, grasshopper :)
So now tell me about soil as souvenirs!?
Or don't ...
Cos I could tell you about soil. In your pants, in your books, in your CDs I. Your fucking children's schoolbooks and homework, under the Lino, The oven, The frame of your dead mothers photo,
And then think some about your words and whether youre just stringing bullshit into plastic to be worn around unserious necks
As a bunch of words it's all rather yummy mummy on Brighton beach walking your dog and kids
Basic bollocks I wouldn't call it jazz I would call it super market music
Yes you earned my ire by accident and so what .., I still read it and said ArSE
Not personal Jen, but you are better than this. Noodled inside my merkin (fuck off) seriously? Cull, edit, .... Blah