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PRIZE POEM
Days of gossip deadly wounded – I believe the short cuts of a poem are refreshingly in fashion. Hand me your lavender spray, its airing my busy armpits… the flow of silk – the Blitz of unpacked messages from skin to hairy skin… the Persians knew so very well…
Tanned you want me? Eurilla, I feel tanned by tinted glasses.
Alah’ia, that’s class-conscious thinking - let me mind it for a sec?
Sure, don’t let the nervous system allow us to slip back into the dark times when the masses swallowed texts like their cars consumed corn for fuel. Time-out for self-pity, for bitching and whining. The caravan of sentimentalities finds only deserted wells.
Now I am thirsty and hungry, here we are into syrup over pancakes: may I finger-write a 3-liner interfering with the sweetness of the taste: gold touching gold ashore ashamed in open jaws
Looks like a submission becoming a judge’s second choice. Wouldn’t it an inhuman thing not to let your soul mates participating in it?
Honey, you’re dripping: open your napkin the wide winged mouth and hand a crew.
ever-present darkness
before the incense burns
the lit butt
fragrant in its waiting
prayers of desire
a wave dashes
stone against stone
a click
and a life is gone
into a new grain of sand
willows weave
the river on its way
to the sea
following such a path
was how I met my mother
sinful early life
writing an ode to women’s
hips of strawberries
for wide screen magic
grim as glucose
Do you know what? The true European coffee took my spiritual based numbness away. My goodness, now I see the disjunction, the disjunctive facts of biological set up genomes: better understood linkage reconstitutes contemporary writers’ concepts. The spicy start in line 1 already holds it…
crossover V-neck
cuckoo calls
the lake echoes
The Thing Itself, its Cholera, the crunchy stink of it in only two lines’ irritation, the seldom healing artificial stitches bleeding. The third line women size XL, turned inside out; or a male construct not earthquake-proof, you name it…
Dispatched from all conventions, I enjoy the chaotic writings by Lautréamont. Now I am exchanging my teenagers’ pants of Swiss cheese-style to Tibetan orange prayer flags on waving hips - that’s it, isn’t it?
Alah’ia, the best revenge for getting rebuffed by an editor is probably saying It still shorter, more economical, using a minimum of juice, pajama-weight lines, fork-proof, knife-cut, breast-rich, elasticized by the automatically working links of neurons.
You are experienced. You helped your daughter growing up in a seemingly anachronistic polite manner, looking friendly into the eyes of a guest saying Hi. Doesn’t she like little glossy gifts
ears pierced
the first pearls she takes in
not knowing the host
Eurilla, you own a plantation, hosting linked rose beds. Why don’t you intertwine their structure giving the garden a conspicuous symbiotic power by adding ice-shaved granite, on its flat front chiseled a 5-liner
your skirt leads
liquidized
I follow
silk charmuese in molten
chocolate and lily prints
Alah’ia, if there will be a prize may we spend it on glass-beads’ transparency?
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