She caught me
fixing on her like a street dog
at a juicy porkchop
the traffic noise chugged slow to heavy texas music
and the light exploded all over her thighs
her face and neck
her smile white and moist as ice cream
or maybe I was dreaming
of a place
where clits grow clustered on vines
and women are friends
and we never wake up in Van-Gogh-Mustard fields
prey to purple bird screams
and rigid clocks
`
A contest entry
- Naked by AJ Morelli.
2500 points, ended June 3, 2008, 26 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
seed?
Comments
1 - 25 of 25
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(speechless)
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it sounds pretty dont no wut it meand tho
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amazing!
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yeah
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Well deserved. Congratulations.
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Wow!
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Definitely worth reading.
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there are musicians that inspire you to go home and play your guitar and others that make you want to smash it, painters that make you want to break out your brushes and others that make you want to burn them. there are artists and those that admire them, you my friend are an artist...
al -
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Thank you, Al. That is high and poetic praise indeed.
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Ahem, being a Texas girl has it's advantages...
This is superior poetry at it's finest, from beginning of a dog fixed on the chop all the way to...
and we never wake up in Van-Gogh-Mustard fields
prey to purple bird screams
and rigid clocks
Thanks so much for this fresh poetry.
Becky
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This is very good. I particularly liked the ending the best. Love, Lane
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Clitfield Under Threatening Skies might have been even better than his troubled old mustardy Wheatfield beneath the same. The glistening glintyness of a shine on the porkchop and the ice cream smile's so teasing and perfectly measured like a perfectly lengthed skirt. It shows enough and keeps enough away. Classy.
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Like what you've done to it. Looks all clean-shaved and shiny.
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That is brillant!
or maybe I was dreaming
of a place
where clits grow clustered on vines...
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meow
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ed is that you...i have been looking all over for you... hehehehe
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Look no further.
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no no no, don't change the order. I see the point of "setting the scene," but it becomes a bit predictable. Him chewing on her (my image, I guess, not yours) definitely grabbed my attention.
Seed? Is that a question about the title? I don't know what I would call this poem, but I would be tempted to look up Van Gogh painting-names for ideas. Or is that just too artiste-ic?
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Not so much a question as an offer. Hehehehe.
I thought the title was the best part.
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i love this-
you are the best poet on this site.
m
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Thank you.
Edited for author stupidity -
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i may be easy- but i'm not cheap
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Somehow I want the second stanza to be the first as it sets the place and tone .. and then maybe even this?
the traffic noise chugged slow to heavy texas music
and the light exploded all over her thighs
her face and neck
her smile white and moist as ice cream
or maybe I was dreaming
of a place
where clits grow clustered on vines
and women are friends
and we never wake up in Van-Gogh-Mustard fields
prey to purple bird screams
and rigid clocks
She caught me
fixed on her like a street dog
at a juicy porkchop
and I'd leave out the bone I'd like her to be plump like a tender grilled to perfection chop -- slightly dangerous pink (remember our parent's porkchops brown discs of meat?)
What a Holy poem to wake up to this Sunday morning. I'm starved.
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you're right about the bone of course, I was just looking to place "bone" on it's own line somewhere, pervert that I am.
I can't change the begining. I just can't.
I look to the right and see: "On.Fire.4.Christ." the antipoet. -
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I just wanted juicy porkchop and rigid cocks to be closer. It's my sound thing.
I dunno, I sort of think On.Fire.4.Christ sounds sort of perverted.
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