Monday blue

Monday. From the old English mōnandæġ: the Moon’s own day. In England and Wales more people commit suicide on a Monday than any other day of the week (Look it up on Wickedpaedophile if you don’t believe me). A melancholy day, then, a dull end to the high-jinks of a fun weekend, a full-stop the size of a full moon in the minds of some, who then reach for the pill bottle –

This morning outside in the garden it feels as if the chill is stripping you down, layer by layer. It’s like winter seeped into your bones before you knew it was happening. This is a cold that grips firm and goes deep. It’s Monday cold –

Time for a glass of the breakfast brandy and a quick poem from Seidel:

“Sii Romantico, Seidel, Tanto Per Cambiare”

Women have a playground slide
That wraps you in monsoon and takes you for a ride.
The English girl Louise, his latest squeeze, was being snide.
Easy to deride
The way he stayed alive to stay inside
His women with his puffed-up pride.
The pharmacy supplied
The rising fire truck ladder that the fire did not provide.
The toothless carnivore devoured Viagra and Finasteride
(Which is the one that shrinks the American prostate nationwide
And at a higher dosage grows hair on the bald) to stem the tide.
Not to die had been his way to hide
The fact that he was terrified.
He could not tell them that, it would be suicide.
It would make them even more humidified.
The women wrapped monsoon around him, thunder-thighed.

Frederick Seidel

The Smell of Blood

A constant hunger for the pornographic, sex crazed, conversationalists,

Then there’s the rubbing of your clit until it burns like stabbing hot fire and pissing, bursting, cumming for Jesus Christ and fuck sakes for nothing’s,

All the time thinking fill me,
Or,
Fucking kill me,

And bitching like a barking dog, with no Master and no loyalty and no allegiance and no brilliant, radiant, flame except her god damn appetite, which screams in her depths and says nothing of any importance, humping the fucking fire hydrant with no fucking idea,

There’s no physical without emotional, it’s all there, it’s all one,
They all want it,
They all have the same holes,
Point blank,

What’s your oldest memory?
How much pain have you inflicted on yourself?
How much pain have you inflicted on others?
Do you enjoy the smell of blood

Jade Dalton

lick into your mouth and kiss you so deep

You like her hands, don’t you darling? When her fingers are combing through your hair so soft and gentle, when you’re lying on her and she’s holding you close. Her hands are the only things moving then, her hands and you as you rise and fall with her even, slow breathing.

You like when she cups your cheek, palm soft and warm against your skin. You like when she cups your cheek and holds you still while she takes her time to lick into your mouth and kiss you so deep. Her hand is the only thing holding you in place while she bites your lips and licks every rasping moan off your tongue.

You love when she drags her nails down your chest, along your ribs and hooks around your hips. When she teases you with those slow little circles, smiling at you while she tells you every dirty thing she wants to do to you and won’t you let her puppy, please?

You love when those hands hold your legs open, push them just a little wider. When her nails dig into your skin and leave sweet little marks, when she makes it hurt so sugar sweet and you gasp as she bites and nips and sucks.

You love her hands when they’re touching you, there’s no doubt about that, but there’s one thing you love best, right darling? Mhmm, your favourite is when her fingers curl around your throat, palm warm where it holds warm and steady. Your favourite is when she squeezes, when she pins you down with a hand around your throat and the other between your thighs and whispers how pretty you are when your cheeks are flushed so red and you’re so wet it must hurt.

You love her best when her lips are at your ear, asking you what you want. Do you want to cum? Do you want her to squeeze tighter? You’ve been such a good little pet, you deserve a reward, so what would you like darling? Do speak up.

And when you can’t answer because she’s choking you so good and nice, the way you like, she rocks against you. When you can’t answer because it’s so much, too much and not enough. She tells you that if you can’t answer, then she’ll have to choose for you and she wants you to cum. She’d like you to cum for her right now darling, cum from just her hands, when you’re gasping for a breath and everything’s the sweetest kind of fuzzy.

You love that, don’t you?

Mommymaxie
So Sayeth, Your Lord

Sunday read

Rewrite, rewrite

Think of an archaeologist who brushes the dirt away. Rewrite, rewrite, until you reach what’s under the surface. Or put differently, the sense you have at the beginning is similar to standing in a dark corridor. You can not see it, but you know there is an end to the corridor. The essential element of the poem exists ahead of time, and you have to keep working to reach it.

Wyatt Prunty
Fallen from the Symboled World: Precedents for the New Formalism

no one behind the language

Poems are nearer to prayers than to stories, but in poetry there is no one behind the language being prayed to. It is the language itself which has to hear and acknowledge. For the religious poet, the Word is the first attribute of God. In all poetry words are a presence before they are a means of communication.

John Berger
and our faces, my Heart, brief as Photos

Rich man

I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.

Matthew 19:23
Synoptic Gospels

Sunday morning activities (An ample sufficiency )

Witch in red

Ticket guy on the train asks if I’m on my period when I
don’t say thank you after he punches my ticket. Voice like
just a joke. Like god, you women take everything so damn
seriously. Hey, ticket guy? For the record, I’m not on my
period. For the record, you being an asshole does not
require the cooperation of my hormones. Ticket guy on
the train says period like curse word. Says it like spit out
of mouth aftertaste, like unconditioning, like won’t
mention this when his wife asks him how work was
today. Says period like something I should be ashamed
of. Like I need an excuse for the woman brimming up
inside of me. The way it smells fear, rears in search of
blood. Hey, ticket guy? For the record, I’m not on my
period, but fuck you anyway. Hey, ticket guy? For the
record, people like you think strength means holding
on, but I’ll let you in on a secret that every woman
already knows: the real strength is in letting go. Period,
like my uterus which is so fearless in turning itself inside
out. In bleeding heartache out of my body. Period, like
that is not something to be ashamed of. Period, like
battle scar. Like the sentence is only over when I say
it’s over. Period, like god, you women take everything
so damn seriously. Like we women sharing tampons.
Like we women in the shower & blood down the drain.
Like we women & all of the ways we bleed for each
other, of each other, in time with each other. Hey, ticket
guy, you want to know why you’ve never seen a woman
faint at blood except for in the movies? Then watch me
grow a new skin every month. Watch hunger leak from
my vagina. Watch me become a new human with every
drop that spills out of me. Hey, ticket guy, you want to
know why we complain about PMS? Last week my
friend texted me hey, my cramps are really bad, don’t
think I can make it to the party, & the next morning I
called her & found out her appendix had ruptured.
You want to look me in the eye & tell me how we take
everything so damn seriously? Hey, ticket guy? Watch
us bleed. Our bodies are reincarnations of Eve. Our
blood is the song of wild things. Hey, ticket guy? You
can shut the fuck up, thanks very much. Hey, ticket
guy? Ask any woman & she’ll tell you why Eve bit
into that apple. Why she chose the universe instead
of you. So hey, ticket guy? Watch my uterus rewrite
its own story. Hey, ticket guy? I refuse to apologise
for the way my body is an act of creation. For how
my blood eats you bare. For how I flourish in red.
For all of the ways I bleed myself into infinity.

Topaz Winters

learned on my own

What I had to learn about poetry is that the poem wasn’t necessarily going to tell me something. It was going to be something that I learned on my own in the poem but maybe the next reader would learn something different. This also draws me to writing: I am free from having to know something. That’s the most natural mode of learning for me – questions, not answers.

Natalie Diaz
This Life is Supposed to Hurt