Junior, the Asparagus
and how I hate those trees

• I'm going to be creating my own personal collective here. I love critiques and comments. The more brutal the better! I'm not afraid of my feelings being hurt, so you don't afraid of being cruel. You'll only make me a stronger writer.
  
• I mostly write prose-poetry, and I occasionally critique. I critique others how I like my work to be--ripped apart. The only way to truly make something good is to find any possible source of error. That may make me seem heartless, but I am not!

The List!
Page 1:
1. You Still Call me by a Pet Name
2. What it is to Fly
3. This Will Teach You, I'm Sure
4. It Could've Been Different
5. It Would've Been Different
6. I Want to be in his Factory
7. I know how to put on Panties
8. Next, You'll call rap Poetry
9. This Could be your Sister

(Note: Poems are rated PG 13. There may be some swearing, or graphic imagery. If that could offend you--you don't have to read it!)

Luffs,
Seraphly

you still call me by a pet name

such brilliant resistance, i mock teasingly,
testing myself as much as you.
it's one of those "another time"s
and your breath can still raise
tiny hairs on my neck to stand straight.

“do i still look the same?�
i only remember how you feel; your
calloused hands rubbed raw by scrap metal
and the habitual affection they gave me.
you would tickle my neck
and squeeze my shoulders without a thought.
it was love: that childish friendship
and compatibility we confused for lust.
and how now, we can laugh
about the awkwardness of our sexual experiences:
misplaced limbs and clueless hands
that never discovered where my soft spots lay.

if we never press our lips together again,
i will remember how they fit with mine.

What is it to Fly

Dulcet tufts of slate and pearl
line the fading horizon.
The air is thick with salt and mist,
with a hint of Atlantic salmon.
The sun gives chase to the perigee moon,
bringing in the tide.

Crash.

Another wave embraces the cliff;
It echoes for confirmation.
My toes caper with the grass
at the tip of the precipice.

Crash.

The twittering of Herons remind me
I am feather free,
but
I am not land locked.
With naïve confidence I curse
Darwin and Wallace’s rules for wings.

Raising my arms and breaking rank
with the confines of the body.
Far above the peak at Fundy
I let go of predisposition,
and release my bonds with the earth.

I will.

This will teach you, I'm sure.


The Well of Inspiration
demands payment for his thoughts, and
with my mind strained
by unfilled papers,
I had no hope
..............but him.

I dropped seven tarnished silver pieces
deep inside his mouth, and
for a breathless moment
I bided, restless
for his answers to come.

With questionable haste
.........(not thinking it at the time)
he sputtered out his wisdom, and
I captured his ideas
word by word;
Foolishly I pressed them.
It did not take long
before it happened; I was
ruined by his work.

Some called it ‘Cliché’
(others were worse), but
word choice aside,
the point was clear:
I would never write again.

In bitter fury, I struck the Well,
“Why did you do this to me?�
The Well then laughed
indulging in my frustrations.
.......“What did you expect,
........for thirty-five cents?�

It Would've Been Different
(If we had sex instead of sleeping)

My unmade sheets
give a rough outline
to our actions last night;
pity all we did was sleep.

Your sweat still
lingers on that pillow
you borrowed, and tonight
I’ll switch the cases,
so that I will dream
in the scent of you
because its sweet
(like gasoline and Old Spice).
It’s funny how now
I crave you.

In the morning,
the stereo still plays,
because you can’t sleep in silence.
Thanks for the Memories, and
Maybe Tonight.

It Would've Been Different
(if I wasn't a whore)

On that bleached white porch
of your college rental home,
the air fills with drunk confidence;
it was a typical September.

It was a night of first times
(yours not mine),
and I was well aware—
too impulsive to see it through;
I just knew I wanted you
(on your back).

I never listened to Dashboard
as I was properly raised
(with Steve Miller and Joe Strummer),
but you taught me how to
express my feelings:
I feel like fucking you.

I Want to be in his Factory

I used to emulate Andy Warhol
because he was popular,
but my sketches were not as bright—
I never got the joke
_______(as I was too busy being plastic).
I tried to understand; I wanted to drink
him up like Campbell’s soup
because he made me so deeply superficial.
It was what I wanted--to be like him,
but no one can
_______(be like him).

Failing to sketch his face from memory,
because he was too pale to shade.
He was a grey brilliance
behind a social decay of art and language.
He would speak to me of –isms.
That is, until he became one himself.
“Isn't life a series of images
that change as they repeat themselves?�
I would then have been foolish to not agree.

I thought I was in love with Andy Warhol,
until I saw Factory Girl, because it was
the disillusionment of a hero
(moreover, my hero) that scratched me raw
like a Brillo pad in one of his pictures.

I know how to put on Panties

Another Saturday with snowflakes
of dandruff creating a scene;
it’s a movie created with cameras on tripods,
and a boom overhead
.....(but I still dance when they do).
Yellowcard performed an honour in 2005
better than I ever could,
but they don’t support PETA like Fall Out
Boy, they’ll never understand
until they sicken with Leukaemia.
Then Stumph would wear a crisp white coat,
and stab the monkey himself.
It’s the Hollywood lifestyle of pretentious "do-gooders"—
they don’t put their pants on one leg at time
.....(they don’t even wear underwear).
I guess if I had millions of dollars I could
have opinions on things I knew nothing about too.

(Taken from a prompt)

Next You'll Call Rap Poetry.


There’s no more patience
in my strawberry fields,
and I can’t sow a new batch.
Lennon makes a nice picture
(the one where he was naked),
but his lyrics are mediocre at best,
and even Leibowitz could not
make them brilliant--
even with her eyes that can
capture what isn't beautiful,
but striking with a perfected design
and an elevated standard;
it's an art lost on the easily amused.

This Could be your Sister

1.
Staccato steps walk carelessly down
a cracked sidewalk; stilettos click
to the pumping beats from night clubs
where women freely rub their bodies
against strange men for free rye and cokes.
She wasn’t looking for another drink
for her rub downs and open legs
(but sometimes you take what you can get).

2.
Impatience fuels an approaching man
in a drunken stupor (but not drunk).
She never sensed his ballistic eyes
trailing her body from the last John she sucked.
An unshakable arm grips her
from around the stomach and pierces
his fingers deep into her diaphragm
forcing her to choke and sputter on air.
His other fetid fingers trace her neck
with enrapturing disdain and thrust her
to the broken sidewalk
against the litter and cigarette butts.

3.
Wafting with the putrid stench
of urea and chlorine:
a plastic container of toilet cleaner
to peel the shit off her face.
The scum and grime will burn
like wasted trash in backyard bonfires,
and leave her face melted
like a soda bottle in the embers
(with charred boils and
compressed layers exposing holes).

4.
He captured her decay in Polaroids and
glued them in a scrapbook collage
(amongst his other treasured women):
his Playboy to jack off to.

Wow. wonderful ideas and use of words.

Wow, the "I know how to put on Panties" one is my favorite of the bunch.

Originally Posted by Technicolor Tampon`

Wow, the "I know how to put on Panties" one is my favorite of the bunch.

Thanks... that's actually one of those random prompts someone gives you... like: "Write about Peta and The Breakfast Club"

I love prompts by the way.

Wait! Have I seen you on Gaia? I remember that name from somewhere.

You and Me and Her (and Her).

You never told me
how you spoke Russian,
but you bragged to her (and her)
with your sloppy regurgitations.
I never knew Du Hast
meant that you were hard up,
or how her words
could make you come so quickly.
We sat up at night
exchanging messages with clicks
of buttons and giggles
typed out in L A W L S.
You always called her first
because you knew
I wouldn’t answer,
but I already knew
what you have to say
because I heard it first from
her (and her).

if i knew, i would have never jumped.
perhaps i should just push you off

i still remember how my words
created lakes from oceans
still filled with salt.
my eyes have never held
the image of a cliff
with such disdain,
but you managed to break
pieces of the earth apart
and toss them back
into the water making mud
from something wonderful.