I'm so pleased you guys are still reading and commenting! Thank you, all.
I'm kind of caught up in writing this short story at the moment. One of the ones you like, Jack. You know, with rugged cops and fatal females and siht
But autumn is upon us. Nothing like fresh September rain and falling leaves to inspire more poetry. So. Soon.
Good health to all.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Et ça, c'est mon genre.Originally Posted by DocHeart
I'm kind of caught up in writing this short story at the moment. One of the ones you like, Jack. You know, with rugged cops and fatal females and siht
Was just reflecting on how good your output actually is. You're in a class of your own, Doc. And if you want to go Raymond Chandler on our asses, well, we'd give it a try.
J
Last edited by Jack of Hearts; 09-04-2012 at 03:40 PM.
Pig
Child-like wrists tied to bed posts
Lead to red fingernails digging inside palms
Clenched, sweating.
I let loose my filthy mouth
In your tiny, girlish ear.
Bad, smokey breath
Slaps blushing cheeks.
I tell you what I'll do to you
In blatant detail: the kisses,
The pinches, the rubs;
How I will utilize each orifice.
Earrings vibrate with shame.
This quickened and quivering breath,
Then swaying, kissing. The bed creaks.
Your Master on you, in you. You: immobile,
Undefending, misty-eyed.
Fragrant.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Both powerful and disturbing. Having watched a documentary on Peter Sutcliffe (The Yorkshire Ripper) yesterday, I'm not sure how I feel about this one. Also makes me think of a scene from the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
Certainly very well written.
Live and be well - H
Thanks, Hawk. Don't worry. Consenting adults, and all that jazz.
Regards
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Firstly I hate single threads. I think lots of stuff gets lost in them and goes unread.
Secondly your writing is simply stunning, challenging and simply stunning. In time I will work through your whole thread.
JB
For those who believe,
no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not,
none will suffice.
You're like that book by Nabokov.
Giving the stinky breath a verb like 'slaps' was inspired.I let loose my filthy mouth
In your tiny, girlish ear.
Bad, smokey breath
Slaps blushing cheeks.
Here's what's unsettling about this poem. Clearly there are two entities in it. But the narrative voice is speaking directly to the other entity and using the second person pronoun 'you.'I tell you what I'll do to you
In blatant detail: the kisses,
The pinches, the rubs;
How I will utilize each orifice.
Earrings vibrate with shame.
Some greek guy on the internet telling 'you' he's going to violate 'your' every orifice? Real original, Doc.
(Last line of this section was pretty original and well done... earrings/shame).
What an interesting word to close with. Given what we've just been through, that word, placed where it is, has shades of sexual deviancy associated with it.This quickened and quivering breath,
Then swaying, kissing. The bed creaks.
Your Master on you, in you. You: immobile,
Undefending, misty-eyed.
Fragrant.
As king of this thread, Jack of Hearts pronounces this poem a success. You may violate the bride.
J
I didn't say "violate". I said "utilize". Violations might be nice, but the novelty wears off. Utilizing, however, ...
You *always* get me. If you were a woman I'd ask you out.
Thank you and bless you O faithful reader and commentator
Cheers Jack!
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Your Pig is incredibly good, Doc; it's blood freezing until one understands or guess (and then is told) they are consenting adults. So bloody well written, Doc.
During a Business Trip to London, September 2012
I
I could have been mature about it
And not defied the rules so stubbornly
Had they not put that tweed armchair in there.
So chintzy that, so touristy. Oh, hell -
So "welcome to Britain, stranger".
I dragged it by the window, poured a scotch,
And sat. I lit a Camel. I pondered
The sign threatening a forty-pound fine
For getting caught smoking in your room.
Getting caught. Like fukc, I thought,
And flicked my ash down Bayswater Road.
II
Hyde Park ducks don't mind the rain.
They don't seem to notice it at all.
It must be blissful to exist in peace
In crocodile-free man-made ponds;
To never know danger or discomfort.
To never have to jog at 6 a.m.
III
It ain't what it used to be,
Fish and chips. Back then,
Long library afternoons
Were followed by eager trips downtown
To sink in the smell of the vinegar
Soaking through the wrapper;
To let salt sizzle on the tongue;
To leave the greasy lips unwiped.
Today's cod was in a squeaky white platter.
Thin, stingy chips tasted vague like memories.
Fellow eaters wore dark-coloured ties,
And as I chewed, my mind was full
Not of Bakhtinian readings of Jane Eyre
But on my unfinalizable powerpoint.
Nothing like age to change the way
Things taste, and look, and feel.
Nowadays, bus posters scroll by like forgotten years;
Napkins are strewn about the table
Like opened cards.
IV
Next time I come here
It's got to be with you.
It's non-negotiable.
You must take the window seat
And examine the Thames from above;
Then, you must apply its squiggle
To a caress of my face.
You must kiss me on the tube
During rush hour.
You must examine everything
In great detail. For through your eyes
Is the only way this city will ever
Let me look at it again.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Just brilliant.
For those who believe,
no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not,
none will suffice.
Hi Doc. Tweed Armchair - Chintzy? Hmmm. Not sure about that, tweed and chintzy aren't synonymous to me, one says country and the other says boudoir and never the twain shall meet. If you were confronted with this in your hotel, I'm not surprised you rebelledA crafty drag out the window? You should have burnt the place down - lol. Like the poem though.
I'm less keen on the second offering. The implication that ducks lead stress-free lives compared with the trial of a human requirement to jog at 6am feels a bit weak to me. Plenty of urban foxes to sneak a duck or two and a lurking pike can swallow a duckling whole; then there are peregrines that can knock them out of the air and kids to throw stones at them and take pot-shots with air rifles. Nobody has to jog at 6am, unless they're in the army...
The third one is a jewel though, great description, "let salt sizzle on the tongue" brilliant. and "Bakhtinian readings of Jane Ayre" is really evocative. This poem is masterfully crafted.
As is the last one, which communicates so well that need to share the experience of somwhere with someone special, rather than just be there on your own, kind of lonely and preoccupied with work. Another great poem.
Thanks for sharing these Doc.
Live and be well - H
Last edited by Hawkman; 10-04-2012 at 05:02 AM.
Jerry, thanks for reading, glad you enjoyed!
Hawk, there really was a tweed armchair in there. It was nightmarish. I tried to find something on the internet that looked remotely like that abomination, but all I could come up with was this:
Jack Nicholson himself would freak out...
But seriously, thanks for reading and enjoying -- and I appreciate your critique, always.
Best,
DH
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine...
Alas the wing-backed tweedy
In a boudoir full of chintz;
Doc sits near the window
With a pack of fags, and drinks.
And through the open window
He blows smoke and flicks his ash,
Hoping that the concierge
Won’t see and ask for cash.
He longs to burn the tweedy chair
Along with all the drapes,
Because they’re all so fake and waxy
Like the bowl of grapes.
He thinks of where he came from,
Of the things that make him glad,
Neo Noire and movies, titled,
“Dead chairs don’t wear plaid.”
The four are outstanding, Doc, I read and re-read. But the fourth... Gosh, I wish I were this poem's "you"! Delightful, lovely poetry.
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