Kitten's Litter

I tend to be curious about everything.

 

The lack of rumors makes me fidget.

You’re my acronym for despair.

Aroused my envy germs,
now we vibrate on a Petri dish.

During a slovenly day I cower in the warren.
Bite into a slice of vanity, and then gag on qualms.

Countless times, we’ve spoken of
letting our guard down,

but when you get too close,
lean for an Eskimo kiss,
I project awkwardly, then
make an excuse to retire.

Sigh loudly,
for it seems to articulate me better,
than any words can.

 

This was my favorite stanza, kx.... vibrate on a petri dish... too cool! I really liked how you ended this one, too; you have a gift for conclusion, and this one's not exempt from your greatness! thanks for sharing this, as always

 

"but when you get too close,
lean for an Eskimo kiss,
I project awkwardly, then
make an excuse to retire."

This is precious. So sweet. Beyond, it rocks, its so real and special.
My logic implodes with expressions so innocent and wry in consciousness.
This Eskimo kiss is too white skipping on the surface, to be deep red... yet those flashes cause a sleepy retiring. Fall weather approaches; getting all bundled up and a hot mug.

 

Each night I flip through the catalog,
page through the possibilities.

Lambasted by experience,
I crunch on dates like cereal,
early morning of rigid expectation.

I visualize you in smoke.

You strut bravado, smirk at me,
drink 41’s, then wobble to the cot.

Am I put on mute, on hold, do you have a mental jingle,
when I nag and babble about perils.

I will visualize you burned.
As your voice cinders, burrow inside my ear.

Your contacts leave me uninformed.
So I gather threads, figures and mid-words,
to construct a prototype of our imperfect world.

But you’re still missing…

and I exhale you at dawn,
with fabricated fright, I log my thoughts.

 

This is beautiful. My favorite lines. An open willing exploration stretching and touching all points of the cycle, inclusive. Flexible (enough to be misunderstood at first). At first I thought rigid should be relaxed but this is more immediate. Longing, waiting, expressing... thank you for this.

 

You evoke what I am feeling right now with your very first poetic offering. Seraphic breaths and familiar paths... your last line is so complete. I feel so unoriginal sometimes... all these predefined words and patterns... I scream for newness with archaic language. I divide from the world by the choice of english. I could converse, in depth, for hours on any of your offerings. Thank you for being here.

 

Yes indeed, thank you for being here...I haven't gotten all the way through.Too much to ponder on atta time but I did want to let you know I've been perusing your thread and enjoying it thoroughly...I'M PAYING ATTENTION, I SWEAR IT~!! *giggles* I even enjoyed the rant. Rant away~*

 

Children chill to the bone,
with looks that beg the question,
or shamefully avert,
or make pupils dilate,
with shrill directness.

The private air is scarce
in stables.
Curious words, leap off,
to splinter light, diffract the facts.

Giddy adolescence screams
caramel sex.
But I’m too late,
to pucker up on cue.
Robbed of pollen dust,
instead I was baptized,
by suds in tap water.

 

i love this, hints of eroticism with a haughty maturity, lovely lovely

 

I agree with fulmah. Great passage.

 

It is awful quiet in custody,
muffled concentration hurts,
mental processes.

In the infantry fire, truth is dull,
and
bullets are tender.

Question marks uncurl tentacles
to perplex a septic infant.
Monsoon season will
soon cleanse its carcass of
future sores.

I live in dearth of answers’ warmth.

Caterpillars cajole my pen.

My eyes are clandestine,
full of sleet and flak.

I sieve the useless limbs,
amputate the facts,
I stamp the newborn envelope,
and dispatch it with a metallic stork.

 

This is wonderful, KittenX. I'm blessed to share in your inspirations. I had some I wrote at work, but I torn them up... amputate the facts, indeed.
Capterpillars cajoling is tickling.
Stamping the newborn envelope.. freshness.

"Question marks uncurl tentacles
to perplex a septic infant.
Monsoon season will
soon cleanse its carcass of
future sores."
Wow. that is ripe with graceful imagery and powerful cleansing. I love it.

"My eyes are clandestine,
full of sleet and flak."
A poem in a single image. Wonderful work.

Feel the shades of true grey here. Silent waiting in custody.

 

"graying strands of hair...
Rain."

I love sharing rain with others.

 

Great opening stanza, kx.... I especially like the first line as well as the "muffled" and the "mental". The paradox of the second stanza is provocotive, and the third has those powerful images of yours. From here it really takes off, to me...

I just love the obscured danger here, and seems connected to the amputated facts, creating a sense of reservation/hopelessness. Then with your last stanza, "newborn envelope" in the "metallic stork" ... too cool! Great job here, girl!

 

I dare you to catch me,
as I fall asleep.
Flex your reflexes.

I yawn.

My clumsy head drops
onto your sturdy shoulder,
you are my comfort pillow,
and a coarse blanket.

Now yielding,
I anticipate a dream from you,
direct my slumber film,
where we remain as actors.

But interrupted,
you tug my bottom lip,
and grin with mischief.

And I dare you
to poke me one more time.

 

Medusa tied the knot
that seized, squeezed last breath
from your deflated lungs.

That villainous tramp will
make you stay up all night
writing sap of Hallmark love.

You two deserve each other.
But those wedding bells,
will soon sound like funeral chimes.

 

Ooh nice new offerings....letters is fantastico, very very powerful images...I was dumbstruck by
"In the infantry fire, truth is dull,
and
bullets are tender"

This had a very Nam feel about it - deliberate? A reflection on war's place in the American psyche?

Dare is beautifully written in your trademark style. Your mastery of clever turns of the tongue never ceases to amaze me!

 

Medusa also provided the glance
that was the only cure
for Andromedas' plight.

Still amazed, at the concentrated power of your poems.

 

peon life in a permanent blind spot,
with a prophylactic cerebrum.

our pores are clogged with machine oil,
with million breaths of exhaust fumes,
as necks snapped in cable noose.

full of hysteria and adulation for
messiah’s purgatory ejaculation,
his voice box asks for more
ash flower buds to be spilled
onto kitchen tiles.
and we concur.

while gargoyles profit with
the bait on a global fish hook,
behind our eyes.

we are stillborn.

my successor,
don’t slouch,
don’t point your snout
into another’s snot,
defy the meek instincts
to be blind.

it’s about time we conquer our choice.