30:04:17

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Today we’re at the end :^(. Pretty sad for this year to be over, but pleased I’ve tried a new form (Haibun) for the last day

 

Darling, give in. No matter how we look at this it will always be a battered pigs ear, the drum of it humming, the sole freckle lonely and missing the lip to own it. Nothing is intact, least of all what I have to say. We know the seasons. Wore the carpet thin with them like track marks, except we do not brake into the skid. We speed up; sliding to revive the collision over and over. I can’t imagine this any other way. How many moons have passed. How many new stars birthed in apathy. Still the skin remains untouched. Still the morning blooms malnourished and wary, ever silver in its watered light. There are two types of distance and we dabble in both. Stranger/Lover. Inside you something beats as it does in me but even for this we cannot branch out of repetition, even for the weakness of sex that longs to be sung to. There are no happy breaths. There are no midnight endings pulsed in the pocket of each other. Nothing to get swollen about at all.

everything circles;
this is the nature of things
we must not forget.

 

Picture credit: From Fear Eats the Soul 

 

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29:04:17

 

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Today’s prompt  was to pick a concrete noun from a favourite poem, free write from it and then turn it into a poem. This is half-way there.

 

danced and hot bodied
gladly ripped apart

and chased out into the ice frosted car
with its tobacconist smell    its pullover
pouch warm & leather smoke smell
The long white speech of the road snake
hipped before us       We wait
for the dark windows to melt
Kiss as the engine sprung over

Then the coast road rushing
& speed like hunger   open mouthed
& gushing  down we went   down
through the cold wind splaying the backs
of still jealous houses     windows turning back
only the view of ourselves and the 3am sky
dazzling   for a second    dazzling
& burning under the headlights’
golden eye

You were laughing
My hands were patterned
at the wheel
& Then the stern sound of spinning
& Fur    Like a spark catching flame
Fur    Like a fireball shot low
to the surface     broiling in the dazzling
golden eye

The fox somehow    homely
on the cold morning road
blistering heavy & patient
breath up into the night      The fox
in the headlights  steady eyed in a curl
of black halos
-the swoop of them bitten
from the frost covered road
by tyres that were almost   almost   Just quite.

 

 

I chose the noun ‘fur’ from Adrienne Rich’s Fox: a wonderful go-to poem.

Picture credit: Pinterest

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28:04:17

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Today’s prompt was to write a skeltonic verse. This was this year’s first grumble. It’s really hard to write poems like this without it being doggerel. And I HATE doggerel. Grrr. Not in love with this but it’s a start….

– Oh So Serious Skeletonic-

Light caves in:
its laboured grin
moves gold and thin
on freckled skin.
Let’s stay in bed.
The day’s undressed
and we are blessed
to be caressed
by this bare touch.
It does not rush.
Let us not rush.

 

Picture credit: http://www.vintag.es/2016/08/30-vintage-photographs-that-show-what.html

 

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27:04:17

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Today’s prompt was to write a poem about the taste of something. Don’t ask me how but this whole poem just came to me whilst walking the dog around the quarry and thinking about the pines.

Lichen.

Let me take you in my mouth.
Or.
My whole body is a swell
of tongue, plump and prime

green and fanned.         I crawl
across                     took a tour

to get here to where
what I want
what I want
what I want

pools in the scoop
of your hollows
-Sweat, fresh and sour
crystal beads your collarbone

and your skin stretched
across tastes like the good

raw earth

Picture credit: Tumblr 

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26:04:17

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Today  we’re being future archeologists.

In the bones, we found marrow
and stalagmites of memories.
We found teeth without personality.

In the liver, suggestion
of the last dark night
in the molasses of liquor,

and the last activity recorded
by the brain is 140 characters
of denial.

In the city of the lungs
(purple and primitive as they are)
little pockets of snow
pattern all highways.

Oh, the blood is all gone now –
whispered into the earth
like a final prayer, Dear Lord.

And the heart (a stone twisted muscle)
which, when pulled apart,
shows a dim but flickering light.

But of most interest perhaps is here
on the tongue, where we find fossils
formed of silence. Small shells
of fear or withheld love

and then here, in the labyrinth
of the lower bowel, a build-up
of what appears to be regret
mixed in with ash and dust.

Picture credit: http://vancouverisawesome.com/2014/01/29/vancouver-was-awesome-the-cave-1937-1981/

And thanks to this  fitting song shuffling on and summing up the moment so succinctly:

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25:04:17

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Today’s prompt was to write a poem that describes a small defined space. Not sure this technically fits the bill, but hey ho.

 

Take a square of dirt. Build on it.
Now you can claim to own something.

Here is a house. Here is a reason
to wake up and spend all day
out of it at work. Here is a reason to shop.

Let me rephrase: here is a house.
In it you can position a bookcase,
a bed. A man with a voice.
Some memories and trinkets.

Let’s rephrase: here is a home.
Now you have a home
you have a reason to never
leave it. You have a reason

to save instead. There’s a man
and a bed. You are growing
a savings pot. You have sun
and sleet and snow and spit

but it’s all outside the window.
It’s all outside of you.

The bed is in the house and you are in bed.
The man is in the bed and also inside you.
His voice is in your head. Your memories
are trinkets. Your savings
are in another life altogether now
which you can access through the books
on your bookcase.

Soon the baby will cry
and it will paint all the walls.
Already its smell is ground into the carpets.

This is what they call owning something.
This is what they call safe.

 

Picture credit: unknown source. available from Pinterest.

 

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24:04:17

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Today  we’re writing ekphrastic poems based on medieval manuscript marginalia. Well, its been a long boring day of essay writing but I’ve sunk a beer and had a good old laugh at the array of fantastic, bizarre, pornographic, distrubing and pure genius images.

Unfortunately, most didn’t spark any real poetic response, much as I really really wanted to write about a cock tree. Oh well, that idea’s a keeper.

HMV

like a dog skulking low
with a sorrow bone
you creep into my silent
parts and howl.

before you, there was always
tomorrow. before you, i took an eye
for granted. i took the television
for granted. i took graffiti
as art & the margins
of borrowed books to be clear
& unpunctuated.

when we drove there were
headlights. when we stopped
there was violence. when we danced
there was some music hammered
from the heat; never knew your body
from a burnished copper sheet.
never knew your body to be separate
from mine; the push of swift fingers
& the long salt suck

talked into mornings on a cheap
carpet, the cast of it in braille
scarred shoulders & under thigh
i forget

now.  throw you the old wound
that shapes my crooked heart.
it fits the niche of your jaws
as if pride for the purpose.

you speak without saying much.

tell me which conclusion
i am supposed to draw.

 

Picture credit: fucking crazy old monks.

 

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& special thanks to iron and wine for keeping me company tonight.

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