Comments | mollybloom: ARTY ACTION

mollybloom

ARTY ACTION

Nov 03, 2006 13:59

I want to write a poem for you, like you give me a sentence, quote, picture, idea, color, event, memory, etc. and I'll respond with a poem.

I'm hoping this'll give me the creative incentive I need to fuel through this month while I jealously watch everyone else NaNoWriMo.

So! post! Get a poem!

Comments 19

missteja November 3 2006, 21:33:28 UTC

( ... )

mollybloom November 3 2006, 21:56:10 UTC

She never minds when I touch her,
even when in my impatience,
my stupid human forgetfulness,
I do it harshly.

mollybloom November 5 2006, 07:06:30 UTC

He came to me in the middle of night ( ... )

Tyre Equine initialr November 3 2006, 21:51:37 UTC

( ... )

Re: Tyre Equine mollybloom November 5 2006, 20:07:54 UTC

In this modeled body God
waits to meet with me,
to know me as Adam knew
Eve.

thallos does not grow
by division, because cleaved flesh
is still one flesh, but by the tip,
the septa form to partition
each hypha

If I prostitute this body,
squander it in adultery,
He cannot meet with me,
for sin discomforts Him,
the fleshless.

The hypha narrows
as it passes through the
wall of the cell and then
expands on invaginating it.
These hands, but not hands,
do not assault, they coerce;
this is the courtship.

I give to you my body, my flesh
onto your flesh, I cleave onto you
as a gift, let us come syn for
once cleaved, God
will meet with this modeled
body, this pure progeny.

The haustoria penetrate
to know the host’s flesh.
These hands, but not hands,
do not rape, they consummate.

Re: Tyre Equine mollybloom November 17 2006, 01:44:15 UTC

Epeius built his cousin, 20 feet tall ( ... )

sans typo: ditriana November 3 2006, 23:15:19 UTC

"to the children and the innocent it's all the same."

(kerouac; one of the final lines from the dharma bums.)

Re: sans typo: mollybloom November 5 2006, 06:34:33 UTC

The sound of the toilet flushing
and my hairdryer scare you,
send you white-flashing, to the nook
outside my bedroom door. You lay
there waiting, licking the curve
where evolution should have given
you a thumb, for me to scrap
your ear, as I usually do,
before shutting the door and
going to bed all alone. I think
you wait for the rare times that
I leave the door open enough
for you to shove your domed fox head
through and scamper up to knead
the soft part of my comforter
up near the pillow on the left-hand side,
to watch me sleep in your
steady, introspective way that is not quite
like a soul impressing wisdom,
but an etched wall of memory.