The writings of Oddpoet » man and woman

The Mantle

oddpoet1 — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 07:59:32 +0000

It no longer fits
Hanging loose on my skeletal frame
The glittering embossory
faded
like dime store trinkets

It no longer warms
Nor succors
Against the vagaries of this world
Threadbare
Worn
Patched

Your eyes
Lost their depth
Mere glass beads
Common place and dull
No longer will creation be birthed in them

Your soul lost its mystery
Gone are the many sojourns
Along mystical paths

Replaced by supermarket aisles
With jaded Hucksters hawking wares

Gone is the music
The symphonies, the Mozartic choir
The songbird’s celestial accompaniment
That always followed your dance
All I hear
Is a dissolute wind
Mourning
Cold
Desolate

I am left in this hollowed hall
As Winter’s chill envelops all
I am left with this Mantle
Threadbare
Worn
Patched

The Chalice

Moondreamer — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 17:33:03 +0000

An old friend of mine Moondreamer finally consented to throw some words down here. He is what I call a real pansy ass. Rest assured he would laugh at that characterization and call me an Attila the Hun wanna be. Oh well, here is Pansy ass’s contribution.

Would you drink from this plain chalice I offer?
Neither jewel encrusted
Nor layered in precious metal
Did not Guinevere taste from it?
Arwen?
I do not come as mendicant
I come as one who would know you

Would you drink?
Would you know me?
Peel the layers
Of falseness
Into my heart?

I wish to taste you
Savor your essence
This world can no longer contain my hunger
My desire
My will

One night
While the Gods sleep
And the world suspends it’s tortuous path
Yet can it be?
Can the universe sustain such passion?

Yet One night…
One night…
I would stop the stars
Still the beating of false heart
Cause songbirds to rise as one
And sing a symphony
That compels the world
To listen…
Proclaim to the world.
That beauty’s heart still beats
In you

JUST ONE NIGHT!
I would lay prone
And take the pain
That bathes you
And the particles that define us
Will rearrange
Differently

Would you have me stand outside your closed door?
Locked against the boredom of this world?
Yet
It cannot be
This world does not reward a true heart
And…

The stars will weep
Their light less bright
This world will stop
And feel an emptiness

And the songs of this world

Will sigh…

The Crazy Lady and the Broken Clock

Eddie Mount — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 17:06:22 +0000

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…

The Male Orgasm

oddpoet1 — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 22:17:05 +0000

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…

Her Reflection~para

Para — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 18:25:14 +0000

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

In Love with the Moon

oddpoet1 — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 17:58:49 +0000

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

Our House Of Horror~para

Para — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 18:22:56 +0000

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

The Ground Upon Which Riots Flare~para

Para — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 18:43:49 +0000

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…

Her Love. Her Poet. Her Warrior. ~An Susan/Oddpoet Collab~

oddpoet1 — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 23:38:50 +0000

collabweddie

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…

The Softness of Rita

Eddie Mount — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 16:57:56 +0000

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