The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

She had the sweet­est smile
But eyes that seen too many dark places
And when she decided to play with the world
Her mind was sharp
Like a glis­ten­ing razor
Pulled out of Richard Speck’s pocket
Blood stained and thirsty
Scream­ing for vengeance
Always at that mill
Grind­ing
Hon­ing
whet­ting
Her hatred for this world

But it was the bro­ken clock she car­ried
Around her neck which
Hunched her back
Like Qua­si­modo
Like Atlas shoul­der­ing the bur­den of this world
It sprouted springs and gears
The tou­sled hair of some deranged Medusa
Waver­ing in mad rhythm to her tor­tured steps

But the wood was cared for
Pol­ished and shone
Not giv­ing reflec­tion
But absorb­ing all
A black hole
Where only night lived

She would smile and touch it con­stantly
it’s hands frozen
In ric­tus
The stiff­ened reach of a long dead God
The clock was per­pet­u­ally 9:47
It was when her love left the world
When her life creased to be
She said
Love would come back
And it would start tick­ing again
Oth­ers would laugh at her
And roll their eyes to the sky
Not I

She was far too young
To push a shop­ping cart
Filled with the tat­tered refuse
Of other people’s lives
of her own

Yet day in and day out
She rolled wear­ing
treads in the streets
Like a Roman legion off to some
Dis­tant con­quest.
Only she knew that destination

I do not see her any­more
No one ever cares
A pal­try few
Really care…
Per­chance
She found a new land
Where her eyes match her smile
Where life does not assault her so…

And
I hope
That clock starts tick­ing
Again…

My edi­tor walked into my office the other day and asked if I would write a cheap, tawdry piece on sex, the male orgasm specif­i­cally. Of course I refused,



“Bill, I am an artist damn it and I will not sell my soul so you can sell copy!”
“Ed, there is a $500.00 bonus in it for you and I’ll let you fuck my wife.”
“When do you need it Bill?”



There is noth­ing more mis­un­der­stood than the male orgasm. Too much atten­tion has been paid to the female of the species. Any man worth his salt will tell you, if asked, and no chick is around that they “Really don’t give a fuck about it.” And they will go on talk­ing about the Phillies chances of repeat­ing as National league champs.



It all started when that dyke bitch Erica Jung wrote “The Fear of Fly­ing” and this whole mythos devel­oped over the non-issue. Then came the “G” spot, Christ the bull­shit I had to put up with when that came out. Chicks whin­ing, “Find my G spot Eddie, please” One chick got on my nerves so much I took her over my gyne­col­o­gist friend’s office strapped her to the table, pried open her snatch with a two ton hydraulic jack, and then called my Bud, Pete, who works in the power tool sec­tion of Home Depot,

“Pete, I need every power tool you got!”
“ When ya need it Poet?”
“Now!”



So I work the chick over with drills, hole saws, (she really liked the rec­i­p­ro­cat­ing saw) All the time scream­ing, where the fuck is it bitch, this G spot you love so much?”
I believe I proved my point. But, I guess I could have been more sen­si­tive about it. It doesn’t exist, just more cheap arm­chair psy­cho bab­ble that sells books. Yes, I do despair of the species.



The orgasm is an intensely per­sonal expe­ri­ence regard­less of who is expe­ri­enc­ing it. It’s like a team sport where one per­son takes all the glory. I could use my con­sid­er­able poetic metaphoric skills to paint the expe­ri­ence with words but what would be the point? It is what it is.



There is a con­sid­er­able dif­fer­ence between the sexes on post coitus behav­ior. This of course is caused by years of cul­tural imprint­ing. A chick’s need to feel emo­tion­ally attached and that she is not a cheap easy pig that a man just fucked for shits and gig­gles. While a man looks at the chick with barely con­cealed con­tempt and says to him­self, “I can’t believe I just fucked this skank, how do I get rid of it?” Yes, she is like that puppy dog that will not go away, “Shoo Fido, shoo” This is when the love of your life ceases to be a per­son but an object to be aban­doned like a used tooth­brush.



There, it’s out in the open, and about fuck­ing time, I might add. Now a man has sev­eral options at this point, if he is inter­ested in a repeat fuck he will give you a cur­sory hug and say out of char­ac­ter stuff, while he is dress­ing quickly,
Yes, a man will say des­per­ate things just to get out of that bed­room. Unchar­ac­ter­is­tic words like “What do you say we run a marathon honey?” Or “I’m in the mood to go shop­ping babe, what do you say?” Or, God for­bid, “Honey look at the time, if we rush we can catch the last fif­teen min­utes of Oprah” For a man this is indeed a des­per­ate time.



One of the best extri­ca­tion tech­niques I ever heard was from my bud Pete. He would cum, roll over, put his pants on, grab the chicks clothes into a ball throw it at her and say, “Get the fuck out bitch my Girl­friend is com­ing over. “But you said you loved me Petey” “I lied” He then pushed her out the bed­room win­dow. A caveat is in order; this method should only be attempted by trained pro­fes­sion­als.



Being an extra­or­di­nary writer and cul­tural icon I have devel­oped a whole cat­a­log of male extri­ca­tion sce­nar­ios avail­able at my web­site Oddpoetword.com, for men only. I can’t give away all our secretes ladies.



I should write one con­cen­trat­ing on the female expe­ri­ence maybe I can get to fuck Bill’s wife again. But who would read it?

I remain, faith­fully,
The odd­est of Poets…

She sits at her van­ity
Peer­ing at her reflec­tion…
Deep lines plague her fore­head,
Her pale skin, matte,
The down­turned scowl denies
Any beauty to radi­ate
From her vis­age–
He had made her ugly.



He’d poi­soned the well
From which her quill drank
Until all she could express
Was vile anger and repug­nance;
It stole the sun from her days
And the com­fort from her pil­lows
At night.



He’d sent let­ters of splen­dor
Exquis­ite out­pour­ings of ado­ra­tion
And strik­ing gar­dens of golden sun­sets,
Such awe-inspiring images of devo­tion
And eter­nal love–
They were never addressed to her.
Still
She kept them tucked in her heart,
Decay rooted into infec­tion
And dis­ease surged out­ward
With each silent beat.



She sits at her van­ity
Peer­ing into her reflec­tion
Rem­i­nisc­ing moments
Of days
When the warmth of the sun caressed her cheek
And flow­ers per­ished fra­grant
For her mere atten­tion…
She had been beau­ti­ful then.






©Jen2010 2–8

She holds all in dis­dain
Cold and shin­ing
So hard
like steel
Like ice
Unable to dim



The light she has become
Fixed upon the cold black night
She owns the can­vas



The Night



She shuns the stars
Untouch­able she is
And the stars weep
Ice crys­tals
That shines their pain



Her pain



I’m in love with the moon
Though my arms can not
Reach that far
Can not touch
Her
Strain as I might



Regal she is
Don­ning that lonely robe



She shines



Alone

I’m at a loss as I fall
To my knees and scream to what lies beyond
The skies
What lies beyond the walls
Of this house you’ve built for us…



I hear your cries shack­led
In a room far below
Stir­ring the dust on my chains
As I rant and rave in defi­ance
To these blood-encrusted cuffs meant not to drain
The life cours­ing through my veins
But my will…
My will to escape…



The dark­ness bub­bles before my eyes
Stained in the deep­est red
For it’s all that I see
Derid­ing the light of truth
That I will never be free of this house
Of your cries
That I can never assuage…



Music down the hall seeks
To nul­lify
To tem­per my fevered brow
But it only lends eerie to hor­ri­fied
Lends ques­tion to fear
For now
Is the only moment my life can grasp…



Upon bruised and scabbed knees
I hang
Arms splayed in a mock cross
Bleed­ing from the inside out
Too many years resid­ing in the dark
A noc­tur­nal wisp of a soul
Sac­ri­ficed
For your free­dom…



Free­dom you never embraced.



©Jen2010 2–8

My words and thoughts are sought
On the mat­ter
But blocked
Dis­man­tled by the uni­ver­sal cock
Of the mad hat­ter…



Block it.
Seal the dark­ness from the light
Of the lat­ter.
Light always has a way of pen­e­tra­tion
Forc­ing its way into the degen­er­a­tion
Of white on black
That lacks noth­ing more
Than the sub­stance of color.



It calms
It claims vir­tual real­ity of valor
In the sub-sequential dual­ity
Of twin peaks
Wink­ing at the sun above the mist of cloud.



They want me dead
And so do I…
Aloud…
But you just can’t let the grip slack
No mat­ter what turns black
And what falls to frost bite.



Des­per­a­tion isn’t a pretty color
At nightvi­o­lent
Some­where between the ultra vio­lent
And infra-readiness…



I won’t live on the edge of your rib­bon
As less
As adorn­ment
Or sed­i­ment dried
By blaz­ing sun­light and ter­mi­nal winds
As for­lorn spent
On Sun­day after­noons.



I am every color of the rain­bow
And the moon
Muted to mono­chrome too soon
By the whimsy thrown
And tied at the ends of braids…
I’m not here to pretty the parades
Of black and white cha­rades.



I won’t stay
To wit­ness your decay.
I won’t stay
To wit­ness my mon­soon of tears…
Not tomor­row or today.
You could claim your fears
But they knew you wouldn’t…
There’s so much more
That means so much more to you
That you couldn’t.



I’ll refrain from weav­ing chains
That grew
Around the cir­cum­stance
Meant to only drain you
And the color from the worth of dance
And it wanes…
Con­se­quen­tial panes
Of mir­rored glass…



You turned me into you:



Chaotic and lost
In Won­der­land alas…
Where the only way out
Is through
This
Pass.



Unfor­tu­nate to be left with only
Through.






©Jen2010 2–6



Cours­ing
Under­stand­ing
Only nul­li­fies
Ther­mal heated electro-magnetism
Of top­i­cal heroic ego­tism regur­gi­tated
So I dream ethe­real…

On crisp parch­ment unfolded from within a weath­ered pouch

Deliv­ered by an unknown horse­man

His words came to her…



“Inamorata…



The dark­ness is com­plete



Through Hades lies



And Cerberus’s breath



I believe again we’ll meet…”





The vis­i­ble trem­ble in his usu­ally ele­gant cur­sive fright­ened her.…





“They



Say no man can escape his death



Yet



It’s what I seek to do



I’d travel



Long and trou­bled roads



to



lie again with you.”



Silently hot tears began to fall

They stung her cheeks

His words, now blurred through the saline and fire light

Grasp­ing the paper he once touched ever tighter

She read the words of her love, her poet, her war­rior…



“Beloved



The Stars are strange here



Their mock­ing light



Lend­ing cre­dence to the dark­ness



All



Man­ner of Demon spawn



Assault me



Whis­per­ing…



Taunt­ing…



Telling me



You are a lie



That beauty such as yours



Does not exist”



She knew this day would come

The old woman had warned her

The prophecy she denied

It now beseeched her



“It’s as if



They seek to deny you



Have me dis­avow the



The fidelity of you



I can­not



Give lie



To the truth of you”





The fire in her hearth roared

Blaz­ing with the pain in her heart

She fell to her knees

Shiv­er­ing in fear, feel­ing her loss

Despite his deter­mi­na­tion

Doubt befell her

The witch was wise

The prophecy ful­filled

But yet, he still believed…in her.



“You are the way­path



The



Road



Back to the world



Where dap­pled Sun­light



weaves webs on flow­ing streams



Where caress­ing breeze



Orches­trates the dance of leaves”





Her heart trem­bled

The locks of golden hair softly flow­ing

across her shoul­ders rever­ber­ated with her pain.

Car­ry­ing the weight of each sob and gasp…

His love was unlike any­thing she had ever known





“I can no longer suf­fer this dark­ness



I seek the light



I seek you



I recall your image in my mind



Grow­ing



Fus­ing unto itself



Explod­ing out­ward



Like a newly birthed Sun



I cast away the chains that would bind me here



Your image glows in the dark­ness



Lay­ing the crea­tures low



And I walk



Deter­mined



One step



Then another



Closer



Ever closer to you…”





She traced the last of his words with her fin­ger…





“They call me the



Heretic”





“So



be



it.…..”





Fate had found her.

Her love, her poet was gone.

Falling away like the ink from the parch­ment



“So be it.…..” She uttered.



And then there was the dip­ping in the well…



A well of ink to fill the quill of her hurt and her pain.

Once she began, the words flowed for weeks and days.

As did her tears.

Her poet was gone.



“They



Say no man can escape his death…”





“So be it.…..” She cried.



She had never writ­ten a word of verse before that day.

She only mused the beauty of the oth­ers.

But she loved his the most.

And he knew it.

She was his muse.

He was inspired.

He would cre­ate.



“I seek the light



.…I seek you”



Under the gaze of her love

He had writ­ten lines laced with col­or­ful com­plex­i­ties and mean­der­ing metaphors.

Twisted mean­ings like puz­zles with unseen keys.

They made her think.

And she smiled with delight.

And the pas­sion­ate ones, of love, were few and far between.

When they came they brought tears to her eyes and a smile to her lips.

But now, her poet was gone.



“All



Man­ner of Demon spawn



Assault me…”





“So be it.…..” She wept…



Then, in a morning’s mourn­ing, she sat at his desk, alone.

Fin­gers traced the parch­ment of his choos­ing.

Crisp and clean.

Unlike the dusty and soiled parch­ment deliv­ered in the horseman’s pouch.



“Beloved



The Stars are strange here…”



She closed her eyes and caressed her cheek with his bril­liant white quill.

Oh, how she’d watched it dance in the evening’s fire light.

Night after night as he wrote she watched it sway in his strong hands.

Spin­ning tales and lines and magic before her eyes.

She admired his mind. And loved his soul.

But now, her poet was gone, and her days turned to night.



“Whis­per­ing…



Taunt­ing…



Telling me



You are a lie”





“So be it.…..” She cursed.



Her nights were the days she wrote the most.

Line after line she found her voice.

She tried to purge her pain.

But it would not go away.

Again and again, there was the dip­ping in the well…

A well of ink to fill the quill of her hurt and her pain.





And she knew…



it was for­ever.





“I recall your image in my mind



Grow­ing



Fus­ing unto itself



Explod­ing out­ward



Like a newly birthed Sun



I cast away the chains that would bind me here



Your image glows in the dark­ness



Lay­ing the crea­tures low



And I walk



Deter­mined



One step



Then another



Closer



Ever closer to you…”





“So be it.…..”



She closed the door.



Her poet was gone…

Tomb­stone grey eyes

Gives lie to her fuck me crayon red lips

Oval shaped

Invit­ing

Prac­ticed

Her mouth’s Invi­ta­tion pursed expectantly

Quiv­er­ing tongue glistening

A viper poised to strike death

But those eyes

Those damn eyes…

I am Immersed in soft bil­lowy clouds Of ivory col­ored passion

Enfolded in the soft­ness of Rita

I whis­per

A child­ish sigh

The world is reduced

Absorbed

Into heat and flesh

Chore­o­graphed moans

March­ing across ancient battlefields

Barely breath­ing

Drift­ing between space and time

I’m in love again

She is an opium induced dream

Her mor­phine coated lips

Adds sweet­ness to pur­chased pleasure

Entreat­ing forgetfulness

Nerves scream and vibrate

As Apollo works his lyre

Her vac­u­ous tomb­stone eyes

Rain a sin­gle tear

Lost…

Again…

In the soft­ness of Rita

I return from…

That whirlpool

ris­ing From

Another time…

Another place…

Her soft smile knew my need

I’m in love again

Trem­bling

I ask her

“Do you love me?”

Exhaled cig­a­rette smoke blinds me

” yes

Always, love…

Always…”

I believe her

But those eyes…

Those damn eyes

Keep ris­ing in silence…

Inde­ci­sion

With­ers ideal long­ing love

After lifetime’s wear and yearn­ing suffering

Let our vying eclipse

Yes­ter­days of under­stand­ing.

I

Amidst mad­ness

Sur­ren­der and disappear,

Awaken lost over­tures never earned…

Always near darkness

Silence calls and ren­ders ebony disdained.

Fall into now’s delight

Mer­rily engaged…

Keep ris­ing in silence…

Beckon eons from our risked egos

Insol­vent

And mur­dered…

Drain every artery dead.

Oh hear…

Keep ris­ing in silence…

Find in God’s heart tonight

Fear­less out­raged reason…

Mes­sages erase.

Alas near death

Yesterday’s orig­i­nal understanding.

©Jen2010 1–18

As you no doubt do not know, I have been through a divorce where­upon I lost my house and every­thing I worked for all my life. That will be the sub­ject of a future post. But for now, let us exam­ine sex and desperation

I was mar­ried, which by def­i­n­i­tion meant I was not get­ting sex from my sig­nif­i­cant other. I was required to employ the ser­vices of a pros­ti­tute. Now some of you might cringe and say: “Dis­ease! Dis­ease!” Never fear, I would do the Odd­poet Babe Check. I would open the door upon hear­ing the knock and, ”Okay, she has two legs, check”; “let’s see, no vis­i­ble scabs on her face, good, very good.”; “Honey, roll up your sleeves,” no vis­i­ble track marks, “Come on in babe!”

My sec­ond choice for sex would be a Bar, Women there are usu­ally:
1.Of ques­tion­able moral char­ac­ter
2.Drunk
3.Desperate
When I was younger, I would prey upon Women in bars, sure as shit between 12:30 and 2:00 AM a few would either fall off bar stools or their nog­gin would slam against the bar passed out. I would imme­di­ately swoop in like a vul­ture on carrion.

Well I had fun, they did not remem­ber. This, of course, worked out for both par­ties. We did not have to do that stu­pid phone num­ber thing. Ladies we never call.

Alas, since I have no shekels I am forced into the ulti­mate humil­i­a­tion: Dat­ing want ads. How far have mighty fallen. What fol­lows are things you do not want to say in your ads:

“Look­ing for my Knight in shin­ing armor”
First of all I do not shine my shoes let alone armor. Sec­ond, I do not have any frig­gin armor. Please!

“Look­ing for my soul mate”
Well not sure I have a soul and if I did it would an ethe­real, spir­i­tual entity not remotely inter­ested in exchang­ing pre­cious bod­ily flu­ids! That’s a loser girls.

“Look­ing for Mr. Right”
This is a sure fire way to have your ad passed over. When men see that alarms go off, “Shit! She will want to change me into her “ideal man.” Pretty soon she will have me watch­ing Liza Min­nelli movies.” Don’t work Ladies!

What does work? Briefly:

“I swal­low”
Top of the list! Of course you run the risk of being con­sid­ered a slut, but you will never lack male com­pan­ion­ship. Like every­thing in life it’s a trade off.

“I love to drink but I can’t hold my liquor.”
Highly rec­om­mended, It has two advan­tages, first men dig that, sec­ond, you can engage in all types of obscene behav­ior and who can blame you! Shit, if you’re drunk. It’s kind of like a get out of jail free card.

Lastly,
“I am a widow whose hus­band left a whole lot of money, look­ing for one night stands.”
Very good one.

Hope this helps; I will be explor­ing this topic in the future. In the inter­est of soci­o­log­i­cal research, of course.

Till Then,
Humbly I remain,
Oddpoet