Skinny's thread

My, my Aphrodite
sitting there succulent
in a Surrey town garden.

Worshipping the hint of sun
this morning after the night before
behind your Jackie O shades.
You wish these climes were more southern

but heaven knows this Mount Olympus
is better than London.
You even have a vine
in the sun patch you like to lie in
because this slope has good drainage
and your habit of treating things mean
means the plant dangles more fruit.

You reach upwards to pluck
another victim
with your pale English fingers
and we worshippers of the Queen of Gods
groan
as you suck out its sweet, adoring life.

 

If it is the case
that holding a buttercup
under ones chin
and assessing the shade of reflection
determines ones penchant
for butter,
why is that everyone glows
faintly yellow,
and how can I find out their opinion
on cups?

 

I played that game
long before
I knew a boy's name.

The he in question
was always a secret
in the circle of girls, cross legged.

Maybe they did have a mystery "he".
I didn't.
I just wantonly plucked and chanted,

determined that "he" loved me
with a flourish
and flung the devastated yellow part away.

 

others smother, be more selfish!
this way suits you best... I don't have to search.
cups don't get the attention they deserve, especially tea cups.
cheers!

 

I like how you wrote it descriptively, i litterally had a picture in my head of the description of london, that is as described your poem

It takes a lot before i actualy get a picture in my head of what the writer is saying,

normaly I whould have to read something twice,three times maybe even more times before i get a picture in my head.

But with your poem i only read it once and i got a picture in my head,

good work, keep on writing

and i'm still reading the others, this poem just jumped right at me for some reason.

 

Thanks Ben III....I like that one less as time goes by...I'm thinking of modifying it to:

The city is gnarled. It stares inwards, listless.
Resignation painted all over the tall, dusk- lit buildings
which stand uneasy like old teeth.
Busy roads run over exposed gum between the gaps.
The rain washes over everything like palsy saliva,
forcing bacteria and umbrellas into the buildings and under the ground,
to further the decay.


because I don't think that the bits I've removed were adding anything. As you say the description is the important bit, and I still like that.

What does everyone think...?

 

yay woah poet. is aphrodite a cat???

 

No....but could be. I see how you got that.

 

Loving it !!!! Yeah run this tread until the worlds end, its not hurting my feelings... I enjoy what I have read... I just have to find time to read it all!

Thanks for sharing,
go skinny!

 

Hi Skinny!

It's me, Bathala! I couldn't get in using my old name so I had to use this instead. I haven't read any of your poems here yet, but I promise I will.

 

Helloooo! I wondered where you'd got to! How's life?

 

Pretty much the same. How about you?

 

same old same old.

 

Go Skinny!

That cheered me up immensely - thank you!

 

My proposal
is born of apathy.

I did not work hard on this presentation.

I have made no recommendations.

I intend
to tell you things you already know,
using the words I have used previously
in the hope that in the interim period
you may have become


au fait


with common parlance.

 

My proposal
is born of apathy.

I did not work hard on this presentation.

I have made no recommendations.

I intend
to tell you things you already know,
using the words I have used previously
in the hope that in the interim period
you may have become

au fait

with common parlance.




Tops... honest, very relevant, poet!

 

On awaking, the dryest throat
prickled my ash scorched breathing.
Sticky red and grey lids, smudged,
and the after mourning jaw ache,
reminded me I was alive.

Floor cold! Hopping now,
bodily functions begging
no more motion -stepped on something.
Curses. This life

runs away from me
like the rusty water swilling round my gums.
The day awaits. The water suffocates,
a head of steam flushing nicotine
through my nostrils.

Damp towel smells of weekend
overused and trampled. Crumpled
like my face, my hair. Your memory
attempting to leave with the spittle
in the bowl. Clings to my tongue's edge.

I saw the Oracle in the elevator.
She polishes the two way mirror
where people have breathed too heavily
leaned up close, picked their plaque.
She predicted blistering, and buffed my cheer

not a little, when she said my descent
was imminent. Stars reflected in her palms
all set out backwards, water trickling away
between fingers, onto polished nails.

Vacant bridge crossing. Sweating
profusely in my shoes. Cursing softly.
Too much too early,
cooking and coughing.

Someone left a dead dolphin
trapped in ice on my doorstep
and I'm so wrapped up in you and boredom
I didn't notice.

 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/3782773.stm


the chick isn't me, btw

 

Tomorrow a special treat
when love scars the face of her furious rival
for a morning.
Witnesses who rise to catch her
catch the dance of celestial battle.

This smouldering temptress
rides her blackened, angry chariot
in the face of flames, with dignity.
She spews sulphur from her cracked face
in defiance.
Victoria watched and was amused,
and the goddess has hidden her face since then.

In this century of knowing
she will not astound, as she did Jeremiah.
She will not allow us
to calculate the imponderable size of creation.
She will scare the retina of the unsuspecting commuter,
for the sixth time since we dared ensnare the stars on paper.

 

Concentration graces your lips
moistens ceramic dainties
shines your eyelids and brow,
as you beat down starlight with your tail.

Toes gesture to the audience:
Come, dance with me.
You purr, rasping: Plaything,
through your sublime and touching whiskers.

And in return we quiver.
Under your gaze we ripple,
shrink, and count the nervous eyes
staring back at us in stereo.