Thread: Watching Short Skirts on a Breezy Day

She freely blows love,
grabs wrists and ankles,
the swimmer's breast rests
as they wish in their soul
to stand before Her, a pale
fool in her mom jaws, shoulder
joints of love-perturbation,
forefinger, poems, the freckles
of the daughter's dull face
jet hair alert, the well-off
female

the realization of eyebrow
womanly contours of earth,
of health, stinging night
in large doses of blood as
we sit and count the swells
the calmness of the AM
as we sit and conceive,
deceive a woman's soul,
searching for the backbone
and beautiful rolls,

We, the sons for sale, sit
in company and delight in
the truly beastly breast love,
blood bursting the nerves,
pointing toes and curling
bliss, which is the reward and
salve for love's bag'a'bones

EMRBACE AND SUPPOSE
BLOOD, FORGING THE
NATION'S SOUL . . .

{Spewing from creepy creaky
Jaw hinges. . . }

within flesh and my
gunner arms, the expression
of SCARLET breaks the
waist, falters my poise
watching that native-born
son tumb at mother's heroes,
that falling sorrowing in the
throat listening to her
drink at dawn, the
blackened shape of the
kitchen table you perceive
through the shadows,
head on trunk on breast,
broad matter, heart valves,
hair, this old famer's wife
with no farmer

Even in sheets with young flesh,
hear the mucous cough groans
in the drunk sick dawn, even with
limitless beauty blow wonder,
backbone breaking under whispers
as the arm bones give way under
their own volition, growing old
and vacant; . . .
. . . and then the listening
in a mean lecture room
where they wake the young,
corrupting sacred wonders
before the wives can water
them, shelter them with
a downward eye watching
for the apprentice boys
to swim in the skin of
women, to become men
and silence their souls
and pass beyond Her sight
to the flow of sweet flesh,
of defiant love deliciously
soothing the sympathies
through dawn

not bad at all. the name is attention catching, and attractive too
worth reading more then twice

Why on God’s earth has this poem been sitting near the bottom of the page like an old crippled woman when it’s so supple, plump with fresh imagery?

Immediately, upon reading, I was reminded of the life force of the Surrealistic genre (or movement) of writing where free association and the unconscious workings are of prime importance when it comes to liberating the imagination. They also embraced the idiosyncratic which, for example, I was delighted to read here.

,a pale
fool in her mom jaws

I agree with Ash that this is an example of fine use of alliteration and general movement of sound.

“We, the sons for sale, sit..” I like the soft sounds of “sons” and “sales” contrasted with the hard word “sit” at the line’s end. And “salve for love’s bag’a”bones” is brilliant.

We, the sons for sale, sit
in company and delight in
the truly beastly breast love,
blood bursting the nerves,
pointing toes and curling
bliss, which is the reward and
salve for love's bag'a'bones

What a way to describe a boy’s loss of virginity only to become a man, some of whom; become, with bravado, misogynistic

to swim in the skin of
women, to become men
and silence their souls

I loved this! Very inventing and reaching.

this old farmer's wife
with no farmer

Inventive and reaching like the whole of this piece.

This is one innovative poem!

I would recommend you reading Andre Breton, a very influential Surrealist writer. I believe he only published one novel, “Nadja”, which I read when I was seventeen. Till this day the thought occurs to me that I should read the book again and see what an adult perspective brings me.

Enjoy! Laurie

Poet: Andre Breton - All poems of Andre Breton


　
　
　
　
　
　
　

Ash - Yes, my grammar is horrid, even as a prose writer, the grammar in my prose is horrd. Something that must be remedied but probably never will be. As much as I read my stuff aloud, I start to spend just too much time with it and can't come up with a way to solve it. Thanks for your comments.

Ouroboros - Appreciate your admiration.

Silver - Yes, I'm a big fan of the surrealists. Rimbaud and Baudelaire, as well as Appolinaire, I love them all. Interetingly enough I've never read Breton and will most definitely take a look. As always, I love knowing you've traipsed across my work and have found it satisfying enough. I aim to satisfy, first myself than the rest.

thumbs up