Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month 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 National Poetry Month.
Topic 14: Bena would like a poem from the POV of someone doing something incredibly dark, like the darkest thing you could imagine. Form : any Line requirements: 8 lines or more
I watched as they brought the girl out,
naked, drugged and unmoving,
lubricated to receive the offering.
They came to me putting into my hand
a dry ice phallus, the bottom of which
was wrapped multiple times so I would
not burn my hands while I held it.
I thanked his greatness that they
had also drugged me. I swayed
seductively as I walked to the altar,
as my fellows chanted louder and louder.
I shouted the words of the ritual
then plunged the phallus into the girl.
Before she died, she came awake
and it was if her entire being had exited
on the sound that came from her mouth:
I felt small by comparison.
I’m ready for that last exquisite pain.
The one that stills my breath, explodes my heart
is what I want the most - to fill my vein,
elixir from the poppy’s matchless part.
My dreams each night begin within the breech
of love and trust all down my broken years,
betrayals, broken promises. I reach
a shrine of loathing through these hollow spears.
The scars crawl up my arm and down my legs
and each injection leaves an ugly mark;
I’ll scrape the bags, the spoons, I’ll shoot the dregs
until the world recedes into the dark
and all my life goes swirling down the drain;
to sleep, to sleep and never wake again.
Daddy is talking about me.
I can hear him
on the other side of the door.
He is with the family except me.
They are all agreeing with him.
They all agree
that I'm summed up in one word.
It begins with S and ends in T.
My room is a mess.
It is full of stifling.
It is full of necks being wrung.
It is full of darkness.
Children are innocent
only in fairy tales.
We are told to be afraid
of witches with their ovens
and cookie crumb cottages.
Those little faces so innocent.
How could they lie
about that evil
crone in the fire? We forget
that we were children once.
Some of us laughed and ate cake,
while others burned. I touch
these scars and memory
has become a throb of faces
peeled back like an onion
to reveal the future.
You will not see the breadcrumbs
leading from your door.
You will only call a name,
an echo in an empty house.
My childhood roasted
in your oven. What does it matter
if you lose your children.
It would be worse. If they returned.
Acorn to oak, the dark forest
is rooted in their hearts.
We all hold close our private fears,
defenses up against the dark.
Who launches theirs like bombardiers?
Exposed to life, nerve disappears;
disasters strike, we bear their mark,
submerged to drown in private fears.
Abuse revealed, the beast's head rears:
embalmed in coffin, raped in park.
Why lob your pain like bombardiers?
Our skin turns cold, white noise in ears,
acidic bile rises. Nightmares stark
entrench us deep in private fears.
Your sadism honed, we're caught unawares;
cold lips on a vein, teeth bared like a shark,
you rain down grief like bombardiers.
Enjoying the taste of our sudden tears
you give us your horror as if it's a lark.
We all hold close our private fears,
who launches them? Cruel bombardiers.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
(04-15-2015, 03:16 AM)bena Wrote: I think I've scarred cella for life, and ray is a cheater. But all things said and done, I am loving these.
It was a good prompt, I always complain when it's something I don't like to do.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips
04-15-2015, 05:23 AM (This post was last modified: 04-15-2015, 06:44 AM by Tiger the Lion.)
The Mole
I cannot finger the source of the light
that burst my pupils in the Munich night;
that left me blind, and prone to proudly sit
face to the sun, and not comprehend it.
I cannot linger too long in the sun
before freckling into constellations
whose fellowship of bright connecting dots
might chaperon id, to spots where dark thoughts
find no quarter; no cave to rightly dwell
and swell to full potential. So to hell
with that bright infidel and his pundit— Face to the sun! Do not comprehend it!
(04-15-2015, 03:16 AM)bena Wrote: I think I've scarred cella for life, and ray is a cheater. But all things said and done, I am loving these.
Sorry, but I have to disagree. (and I'm going to hate myself in the morning for sleeping with Ray), but I don't think we should call 'cheat' when someone knows the rules best and beats them- this is why we hate lawyers - I think Ray's poem took care of business starting with its title. (personal) From there, if you can kill it in 8 words - it doesn't make you lazy, only efficient.
Reminded me a little of The Talented Mr. Ripley, but terse, and deceptively wordy.
*Unless, of course, I'm reading too much into it. In which case you're right, Ray sucks!
Ray always sucks, ask the yak and the ewe. I know he didn't cheat; I laughed when I read it...but still I would love to goad (goat?) him into writing something truly evil.
04-16-2015, 04:00 PM (This post was last modified: 04-16-2015, 04:26 PM by billy.)
shit shit shit, i have 3 to do to catch up. rays light switch was a hit for me. apart from being clever, it's very clever and succinct.
i'll post one in a while
naples 14 2015 well fucked
Last night i fucked a donkey
and a donkey corpse at that;
you knew her as your mother
that old bitch who wears a hat.
I fucked with a hammer
then i fucked her with an axe.
I ripped her with a chain saw
from her chin down to her twat.
In pieces in the celler
her blood decorates the walls.
I did her in the hallway
at the bottom of the stairs.
I did her in the kitchen
where she moaned about repairs;
Outside on the patio
where the mulberry bushes grow
i cut the hands and legs off
your mother fucking ho
You do not approve
when I choose to take offense.
My choice of weapon,
sword and word
to kill a mockingbird.
Just the other day
I watched my uncle
slice away, a few heads
that got in his way.
Inspired, I have it on replay.
(You ask about the dark:
Darkness is not just a state of mind.
The sun does not rise
or the night decline.
No, it is a constant companion
that only a few ever truly find).
(04-18-2015, 08:37 PM)cidermaid Wrote: You do not approve
when I choose to take offense.
My choice of weapon,
sword and word
to kill a mockingbird.
Just the other day
I watched my uncle
slice away, a few heads
that got in his way.
Inspired, I have it on replay.
(You ask about the dark:
Darkness is not just a state of mind.
The sun does not rise
or the night decline.
No, it is a constant companion
that only a few ever truly find).
Damn good.
Shakespeare would steal this: Just the other day
I watched my uncle
slice away, a few heads
that got in his way.
Inspired, I have it on replay.
I'd steal this: Darkness is not just a state of mind.
The sun does not rise
or the night decline.
No, it is a constant companion
that only a few ever truly find
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
As I was re-reading, I noticed that I had "wound" instead of "womb" ---which might have changed the meaning for some. Damn muscle memory. At any rate, went back and fixed it. That's what I get for typing straight into the thread.
(04-22-2015, 10:59 PM)bena Wrote: As I was re-reading, I noticed that I had "wound" instead of "womb" ---which might have changed the meaning for some. Damn muscle memory. At any rate, went back and fixed it. That's what I get for typing straight into the thread.
(04-22-2015, 10:59 PM)bena Wrote: I had "wound" instead of "womb"
Is there a depth to which this cannot go?
A Freudian slip, also called parapraxis, is an error in speech, memory, or physical action that is interpreted as occurring due to the interference of an unconscious ("dynamically repressed") subdued wish, conflict, or train of thought guided by the ego and the rules of correct behaviour. They reveal a "source outside the speech". The concept is thus part of classical psychoanalysis.
Slips of the tongue and of the pen are the classical parapraxes, but psychoanalytic theory also embraces misreadings, mishearings, temporary forgettings, and the mislaying and losing of objects*.
My fucking car keys belie my very self!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
but I have to disagree. (and I'm going to hate myself in the morning for sleeping with Ray), but I don't think we should call 'cheat' when someone knows the rules best and beats them- this is why we hate lawyers - I think Ray's poem took care of business starting with its title. (personal) From there, if you can kill it in 8 words - it doesn't make you lazy, only efficient.
