NaPM April 28, 2018
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 28: Write a beautiful poem in an ugly way, or write an ugly poem in a beautiful way.
Form: any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson

Each day she bends
to gather all the flowers as they grow.
The rose she tends;
the growth that eats away her husband’s nose.

He plays the clown
in wedding photoes on the wall above.
The hole goes down
so far she thinks it must have reached his love.
people and poems

in nasty ways
or ugly
in delicious frames
none are purely
this or that
but if i could
i´d choose the former -
hideous shapes
creating them seems easier
content is hard
to falsify
or verify
and anyway
both can be fake

Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Let us, my love, consider the word
pustule , and so pop it
into our hungry, possessive mouths.
Ever mindful
of the infective heat, the need,
like lust, for contagion.

Taste the sweet plosive, exploding,
bursting behind
our too white teeth.  Lips part
on the sibilant
ecstasy of it.  Tongues rise,

writhing muscles
in the buccal dampness, slow
opening lid,
of an ancient kist, something rotten,
a forgotten scent

escaping on the chamber's breath.
My lips purse, now,
towards the kiss of you, stretching
into an assertion
of will.
                                  And release.

Flowery Language

Pen scratches into a page, ink
stains paper and hand.
Each word removed from the brain
like tumors put there by god.
Should stars be compared to orphans
who disappear through the night,
or compose a sonnet about dandelions
being worthy of a mother's vase?
Such choices help fill the oven with gas,
but not before wetting towels.
Time is the best editor.
One In Three (Monologue)

okay he said (if he’d of had
a ceegar he’d of been chewing
on the end of it a couple days)
i should of put a fence
around that dam’ tree i mean
the flaming sword works now
it would of then
they blew it but you only get
one chance ya know one
first time

the ghost don’t say nuthin
just be’s there like a tar baby
in a not really way
no secont chances thats the rule
but what about another first
chance why not huh (here he’d
of blown a smoke ring if he’d
of had a ceegar in the first place)

the ghost he still don’t say nuthin
very skeptic’ly but he interested

look, we’ll send the kid
he’s innocent, needs to see
whats what in the real world and
wants to, you know, make a dif’rence

he’ll think we hung him out to dry
the ghost didn’t say
when it comes to the point

yeh but it will give them a
way to forget about that dam’ tree
for a minute did
they deserve that really

funny way to earn it the ghost
didn’t say but he’d of been getting
his coat on if he’d of needed one
or been there in the first place
i’ll drop the kid off

and i’ll pick him up afterward
when he’s done

when they’re done with him
the ghost didn’t say
but he been gone

he’ll forgive
hell he’ll forgive
been needing that
he said to no one (lighting up another ceegar
if he’d of had one and set it
glowing in the east)
‘bout time the kid be good for somethin’
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Meth Mouth

Four out of five dentists
will lie to you. They seek
the sterile beauty of the scientist:
the clean petri dish, the fluoride
rinse. They would line up your teeth
like some suburban picket fence nightmare,
and you would smile the whitened gloss
of a breakfast cereal model. Find
that one of five that will refuse 
to look past your candy apple
red gums. That special observer
who won’t miss the majestic Everest 
of your last solitary tooth.
They will not be bought for bubblegum 
revenues for they know that it is the warble
in the song that makes the nightingale lovely.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
On his cenotaph, scribed

I am your gracious Majesty
Ever faithful to thee,
William McGonagall, the Poor Poet
That lived in Dundee.

Nay, but Sir
William Topaz McGonagall,
Knight of the White
Elephant, Burmah.
Poor in Poetry,
Rich in Tragedy.
It Might Be Spring

but you're out in the garden
in Walmart flip-flops,
a threadbare once-white top
and your sister's soccer shorts,

while a sky the colour
of a gargoyle's tongue
wheezes and coughs 
all over you.

Five more minutes, sweetheart,
your mother's got the bath running.

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