Our rapid fire expose of outsider writer talent! A rapidly rotating lit-zeen of poetry, prose and more! For general questions, queries etc, contact our Little John of the lit world , Pat King.
Friendship is continuous, it evolves, it revolves around the sight of each other the feelings of one another, the small kisses in the doorway. Friendship is a love circle, it trips around, rotates tough angles when the one mate feels the other is in trouble. Often I feel like touching you intimately- exchanging my kitty, Nikki, for your warm breast, thighs, the touch of your behind, or just hours of endless talk, child babble; but tonight I'm heavy wondering beneath your word shadows-are you all right? Has the day, the night, been good to you? Friendship is continuous, it evolves, it revolves around the sight of each other the feelings of one another, the small kisses in the doorway. friendship is a love circle.
from here gaze is out what is need for another "Travel Diary?"
I can't remember the one line that pissed... yet she remembers every...
identifying w this genre write an other book while in mirror eros denies ;not my reflection!
garden weeds needing my attention
hear is through entire (her) diction ary "eremite"
care taken take take is a must be when Walking Mind
full moon half moon again it s vicarious ness left everywhere I am become mere ceremony
moon not separate
from moon light
AHHHHHHHHHHh!
every-day noodles in white bowl
more coffee on put another log fires up tenth day of spring thinking of her only thinking this lingering cold: UHHHHHHGH! is in it s self just a seed -syllable
144 sq. ft. study reading my poems leap s through silence sirens
He was always lost Because he had no direction Other than left to right Left to right And Down
His love Was endless And included Words And women
He loved The letter t At the end of Dreamt As if When he awoke At the end of Every dream Heaven would be waiting
And he wonders how The most idyllic places Nirvana Utopia Xanadu Have the most beautiful names And he wonders If there is a map Because he was lost And so out of place (He Is Here)* Like the letter t At the end of burnt Staring into the ashes Trying to find out What it all meant
He loved art Because it was so unique Just like the word itself And he knew how difficult It was to create And how easy It was to fuck up Just add The letter f And it gets Close to shit
He knew It was pointless To try To translate Poetry Or To try To write Poems When his dog Decided To rest Her head On his wrist
He hated poems That he did not understand And poems About poems And poems Poems Poems Poems That repeated words or had * strange in dent tations
For no reason And any poem That used the word Opaque
He knew His words Were never really His Nor were his ideas They came From beyond Which was why He was always having Metaphysical difficulties And this was why He had not yet decided Whether or not To believe In unicorns
Women Stole his thoughts Constantly With their breasts And lips The soft curve Right above their hips The depth of their eyes Their long Dark Hair Their scent Their skin And their absence
So he spent his days Sitting endlessly Surrounded by words Thinking of women With his pen And paper Watching time Trying to figure out Which direction It was going Pouring Black On white With red Trying to fill The void
The poet first appeared in real.m (Silenced Press 2007)
he woke up from a dream of life riding bikes in egypt, smoking tea with bum boys in tangiers, romancing anne by the acropolis. he woke up, and he found himself an old man with a failing mind, locked up in a care home run by someone half his age, who'd never known such freedom. women who hadn't left their hometown bursting in at eight each morning chiming "time to get up!" in the busy singsong voices of the culturally vapid. prey now to his sisters, who he left behind a hundred years ago, who make him shave, who cut his hair against his will (he stumbles over words, he can't articulate objection); who dress him in cheap sports bottoms when it used to be torn jeans smeared in patchouli oil; who make him wear polo shirts like young kids off the estates, and grandads trying not to look like grandads. they even threw away his suitcase full of classic porn, pronouncing it "disgusting". how he misses it on long nights hiding in his bedroom from the reality of where he is. what he wouldn't give, just now, for one joint like the big bombs that he used to smoke. but all he gets is fruit juice in a plastic cup. the belt he tightened around his neck that time surprised everyone but me.
Click below to learn more about OW's first book and the winner of the Jack Micheline Memorial Award.
About OW!
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