LPiA-22 Nov. 21
Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 21
Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for the month of November. 

Topic : Write a poem inspired by an unusual addiction or fetish.
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 to 14
Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

It's important even if it's maybe not important

Record everything write
Write write record write
Everything record everything
Write write write record 
Record everything record
Write record everything
Write write everything record
Everything write write write
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
Fingers dig down
past irrelevence
such as sustenence
for the dust it sheds.
Scrounging the pretzel bag
of its oily salty ambrosia.

Only partake in small doses
lest you go mad.

CRNDLSM is right, everything is noteworthy
"Whenever is a really long never"
This summer was especially tough
without World Cup '22.
Now that it's finally here
I have visions of the final score-

rushing up
out of clock
lashing lastsecond shot
screaming crowd
leaping up
flash of white curling
net, goal keeper

at air
Mr. Nackyball was forced and compelled
to squeeze a lit candle to avoid Hell,
his future foretold by counting links of iron
ricocheting off a circus Hercules’ frown
when he makes that final agonized quiver.
His daily meal was bread and fried calf’s liver.
When in doubt, and a steady rain pelted
the roof of the empty shed where he dwelt
he might shudder and get on his bony knees
and pray beneath a scratched and soiled LP
of the Beatles’ Revolver, nailed to a cross.
Mr. Nackyball was never religion’s loss,
his junkyard’s sly charms worked every time,
his curious beliefs were his only crime.
A Fine Futility

I cannot conceive of an odder, more humdrum
addiction than mine, to make old lighters work:
to subtly repair, self-concerned in a tantrum–
to spark them and light them - as some starlets twerk.
Oh, joy, there’s the odor of pyrite abraded,
and naphtha ignited, prepared for the toke -
on well-oiled machine sunset flame is paraded...
though neither tobacco nor pot do I smoke.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist

Unless your name is especially strange
without being artificial
(no Abcdes or X-Ash-A-12s here),
expect no love from this lothario
who gains more pleasure from pleasing his partner
than from being pleased himself. Let it end with a -za
without being mere Liza, let it come from the Med
without crossing the pond, let it have a feast day
few clerks commemorate, and regardless of looks,
temperament, even type,
inevitably you'll find yourself blushing at his sight,
swooning at his songs, panting through the night,
such that when he leaves, you'll certainly want more
of the cunning linguist and his choice M. O.

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