Submissions by absinthe
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction Admirer of form.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
12th Oct 2019 3:32am
12th Oct 2019 3:32am
When Man Discovered Fire
It was nighttime. The darkness would hide what Denela was about to do. She brought the bucket outside and dumped its contents into a corner of the yard. There were several plastic containers from soft drinks, empty foil and plastic sachets from shampoo, vinegar and soy sauce, sardine and corned beef tins, plastic bags and paper. She squatted in the dark and in a few seconds, a small burst of light. There was no wind, so the light was unwavering and it grew bigger and bigger. The contents of the bucket burned. Black smoke billowed out of it. She quickly walked away, back into the house and...
#nature
26 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
1st May 2019 1:12pm
1st May 2019 1:12pm
Happy Happy
That’s what they called it, happy happy, the alcoholic interludes
Tainted with nicotine delights, the pseudo-fiesta fares foraged from
The Gardens of Others, cooked over fires burning from sinful woods
Stolen – no – taken, from the old woman who died of a weak lung
Because they poisoned the country air with their happy happy.
They had lights that ran from the roof to the ground, like the rats
That infested the debris from their food and vomit, yet the decor
Was impressive, garish without pretense of poverty, tasteless ersatz
Of glittering plastic...
Tainted with nicotine delights, the pseudo-fiesta fares foraged from
The Gardens of Others, cooked over fires burning from sinful woods
Stolen – no – taken, from the old woman who died of a weak lung
Because they poisoned the country air with their happy happy.
They had lights that ran from the roof to the ground, like the rats
That infested the debris from their food and vomit, yet the decor
Was impressive, garish without pretense of poverty, tasteless ersatz
Of glittering plastic...
#consumerism
111 reads
3 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
19th Jul 2018 2:37am
19th Jul 2018 2:37am
Acts of Fashion
There would not be a few who could remember that elderly woman
Squatted at the door of her house, reciting the litany of evils
That was coming to the village, it was poetry, it was tradition, no one
Rebukes it yet no one shuts the window view to the glowing thrills
Of the progressive life, the many indestructible objects of our desires.
So we took the crone’s litany and we made art, we took photos of our
Selves making art, and we invented a lavish carnival we called Culture,
Conference, Festival, where our symposium papers are the sites of power ...
Squatted at the door of her house, reciting the litany of evils
That was coming to the village, it was poetry, it was tradition, no one
Rebukes it yet no one shuts the window view to the glowing thrills
Of the progressive life, the many indestructible objects of our desires.
So we took the crone’s litany and we made art, we took photos of our
Selves making art, and we invented a lavish carnival we called Culture,
Conference, Festival, where our symposium papers are the sites of power ...
#apocalypse
169 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
16th Jul 2018 6:03am
16th Jul 2018 6:03am
An Introduction to the Short Poem
I am hunted and there is time to write a poem about it, here in the refuge
Of a forest thick with the calls of birds telling me there are too many of my
Enemies and too few of my kind still alive; might I be saved by the deluge
In the distance or the gun in my hand? For my legs are tired and they sigh
With the sway of bamboo in the wind, and the lights are hurting my eyes.
So I stop and between drawing my breaths and the bullets that pierce them
I think of the sea gypsy who sold me the faux pearls that decorate my ears
Whose name was Jilby, who was...
Of a forest thick with the calls of birds telling me there are too many of my
Enemies and too few of my kind still alive; might I be saved by the deluge
In the distance or the gun in my hand? For my legs are tired and they sigh
With the sway of bamboo in the wind, and the lights are hurting my eyes.
So I stop and between drawing my breaths and the bullets that pierce them
I think of the sea gypsy who sold me the faux pearls that decorate my ears
Whose name was Jilby, who was...
#despair
160 reads
1 Comment
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
15th Jul 2018 10:24am
15th Jul 2018 10:24am
Absent Without Pay
Sorry, I was distracted by the windfall of hog plums and did not realise the time
Spent on, wasted on, the observance of the beautiful shape of spots on my lover’s
Face; so now I am full of fruit and grace, antihelmithic and adoration, both supine
And upright, depending on where you are coming from; never mind, whatevs,
I am here, aren’t I, and nobody died while I was away, congratulations, my dears!
Spent on, wasted on, the observance of the beautiful shape of spots on my lover’s
Face; so now I am full of fruit and grace, antihelmithic and adoration, both supine
And upright, depending on where you are coming from; never mind, whatevs,
I am here, aren’t I, and nobody died while I was away, congratulations, my dears!
#redemption
162 reads
2 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
23rd Dec 2016 1:05am
23rd Dec 2016 1:05am
Update 2014-2016
1. It has been a while, I don't write a lot of poetry anymore, just because I have become more preoccupied with the urgency and necessity of farm life. I have 3 sows and 2 boars.
2. What happened to one of my favourite poets here, the cockroach from The Vatican? The last I read from him, perhaps 2 years ago, he was going on about the Nazis. Does anyone know if he has returned?
3. I enjoy reading poetry again, and enjoy the lightness and laughter. Thank you.
4. Thank you, friends who read my writing. I would like to experiment more with the computer-spoken poetry but...
2. What happened to one of my favourite poets here, the cockroach from The Vatican? The last I read from him, perhaps 2 years ago, he was going on about the Nazis. Does anyone know if he has returned?
3. I enjoy reading poetry again, and enjoy the lightness and laughter. Thank you.
4. Thank you, friends who read my writing. I would like to experiment more with the computer-spoken poetry but...
461 reads
8 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
22nd Dec 2016 10:35am
22nd Dec 2016 10:35am
The Café
The café was where he saw her again, the place familiar to them both
a place expected but unwished, for only a matter of time to be stricken
of the rigor mortis of his arteries, he wondered did she not, did she see
did she ever but he will never really know until the blood starts flowing
once more, and he walked home as if his feet touched glowing coals
and as the sweat gathered between his breasts, swelled and trickled
to his navel, he wondered, was it real, was it not, was it ever going
to come true in the light of day, how can an apparition drive him mad!
...
a place expected but unwished, for only a matter of time to be stricken
of the rigor mortis of his arteries, he wondered did she not, did she see
did she ever but he will never really know until the blood starts flowing
once more, and he walked home as if his feet touched glowing coals
and as the sweat gathered between his breasts, swelled and trickled
to his navel, he wondered, was it real, was it not, was it ever going
to come true in the light of day, how can an apparition drive him mad!
...
469 reads
13 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
20th Dec 2016 11:24am
20th Dec 2016 11:24am
The Hovel
His house was a hovel, a permanent reservoir of the scent of
cheap wine and wild berries chewed, the seeds spat on the floor
with the butts and foils of cigarettes, the fire outside a permanent
encampment of fish, game and some time hock from the market
when there is money to buy, otherwise, there is enough in the
woods to gather for a meal, a clay pot seals a hoard of fermenting
fruits, and in the evenings he is never cold, there is always room
This inheritance from a spinster aunt, she was a seamstress from
the first Chinese encampment in Kuala...
cheap wine and wild berries chewed, the seeds spat on the floor
with the butts and foils of cigarettes, the fire outside a permanent
encampment of fish, game and some time hock from the market
when there is money to buy, otherwise, there is enough in the
woods to gather for a meal, a clay pot seals a hoard of fermenting
fruits, and in the evenings he is never cold, there is always room
This inheritance from a spinster aunt, she was a seamstress from
the first Chinese encampment in Kuala...
522 reads
8 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
20th Dec 2016 4:02am
20th Dec 2016 4:02am
My Golden
There is a woman currently in psychiatric ward number nineteen hun
dead and famished is her heart, her prostituted heart, the cardiac ar
rangement that take place between patron and prostitute, that trans
vestite in her mind, the sins she should never be guilty of, endless mir
age of miracles and the many years back upon which she gazed
I tell you -
A hundred cardiac arrests will not transgress the mirror of the schizo
She is a friend from the bitter and grey winters of northern Asia, ambi
tious and determined to survive, born with a...
dead and famished is her heart, her prostituted heart, the cardiac ar
rangement that take place between patron and prostitute, that trans
vestite in her mind, the sins she should never be guilty of, endless mir
age of miracles and the many years back upon which she gazed
I tell you -
A hundred cardiac arrests will not transgress the mirror of the schizo
She is a friend from the bitter and grey winters of northern Asia, ambi
tious and determined to survive, born with a...
385 reads
5 Comments
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
25th Sep 2016 1:33am
25th Sep 2016 1:33am
The Girl Who Likes My Brain
476 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
24th Sep 2016 1:40pm
24th Sep 2016 1:40pm
I am a Bird of Prey
400 reads
3 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
22nd Sep 2016 4:23pm
22nd Sep 2016 4:23pm
Experiment: Blue is the Colour of My True Love's Face
442 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by absinthe
