Submissions by oTHER_vOICES
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Rita Mae Brown "Let others live in black and white, YOU must live in Technicolour. Let your readers see τђє blood at τђє heart of τђє ruby."
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
4th Nov 2013 1:46pm
4th Nov 2013 1:46pm
THE OEDIPUL SON Chapter Five: what will the other children think of you?
Carlton remembers the humiliation of his first day at school. He felt abandoned and alone among all these strange, rough children. Half-way through the morning he wet his pants in anxiety. He watched the darkening patch spread in his new grey shorts and felt the warm liquid drizzle down his thigh. He began to sob.
The teacher came to his desk and seeing what had happened she kindly whispered, “Its okay, it will be all right, come with me.” She took his hand and led him gently from the room. The other kids pointed at the puddle on his chair and the stain on his shorts, giggling and...
The teacher came to his desk and seeing what had happened she kindly whispered, “Its okay, it will be all right, come with me.” She took his hand and led him gently from the room. The other kids pointed at the puddle on his chair and the stain on his shorts, giggling and...
741 reads
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MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Nov 2013 6:41am
3rd Nov 2013 6:41am
WORDS ON FIRE
we live in these poems
for a while
for a moment
words brush their wings
against us
we are touched
by the fingertips
of vowels and consonants
tripping sliding dangerously
across the screens
that light up the dark
in our temporarily sacred rooms
of metaphors
that skim
across the moon
and touch our eyes
and we can see
other worlds
other skies
and with absurd adjectives
we make avowals
of our blind faith
to the obscure reality
of our dreams
our words replace in language
the...
for a while
for a moment
words brush their wings
against us
we are touched
by the fingertips
of vowels and consonants
tripping sliding dangerously
across the screens
that light up the dark
in our temporarily sacred rooms
of metaphors
that skim
across the moon
and touch our eyes
and we can see
other worlds
other skies
and with absurd adjectives
we make avowals
of our blind faith
to the obscure reality
of our dreams
our words replace in language
the...
804 reads
3 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
3rd Nov 2013 6:16am
3rd Nov 2013 6:16am
THE OEDIPUL SON Chapter Four: god will punish you
(Daniel pretends to thrash Carlton with his leather strap... But this unexpected reprieve would be short lived.)
When he was five, Carlton was left in the bath one day to play with his plastic toys. At the end of the tub, on a wooden tray, stood his mother’s bubble bath and sometimes she would spoil him by adding a capful to the water. It smelled of lavender and he loved the feel of the bubbles bursting against his skin.
Next to the bubble bath was a bottle of perfume. He’d often been told not to touch this. But that’s like leaving a Pandora’s Box unprotected with a sign...
When he was five, Carlton was left in the bath one day to play with his plastic toys. At the end of the tub, on a wooden tray, stood his mother’s bubble bath and sometimes she would spoil him by adding a capful to the water. It smelled of lavender and he loved the feel of the bubbles bursting against his skin.
Next to the bubble bath was a bottle of perfume. He’d often been told not to touch this. But that’s like leaving a Pandora’s Box unprotected with a sign...
719 reads
2 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
31st Oct 2013 12:39pm
31st Oct 2013 12:39pm
THE OEDIPUL SON Chapter Three: never interrupt your man while he’s doing it
At night Dorothea lay awake, listening to her husband’s gentle snoring. She prayed that he wouldn’t roll over to her side of the bed and demand his conjugal rights, like he sometimes did in the middle of the night when she was trying to sleep.
It was always the same. He would press himself against her, making his erection and his intentions blatantly clear. And then wordlessly, without ceremony or consideration, he’d take her. It was always the same. No foreplay, no gentle, loving affection afterwards; strictly missionary position and that was that.
She remembers her...
It was always the same. He would press himself against her, making his erection and his intentions blatantly clear. And then wordlessly, without ceremony or consideration, he’d take her. It was always the same. No foreplay, no gentle, loving affection afterwards; strictly missionary position and that was that.
She remembers her...
869 reads
3 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
31st Oct 2013 10:13am
31st Oct 2013 10:13am
MAKING MAPS
i’m a cartographer
exploring the geography
of your body
with the whorls
of sensitively ridged
fingertips
measuring
each minute inch
of you
i graze the valleys
and the hills
the bushy regions
the smooth plateaus
and delve into
dark crevices
that give up their secrets
from damp depths
to the tender caresses
of my skin
my lips
i shiver
at your intense scouring
of my own terrain
i cannot escape
your thorough scrutiny
your meticulous examination
of my flesh
when we have...
exploring the geography
of your body
with the whorls
of sensitively ridged
fingertips
measuring
each minute inch
of you
i graze the valleys
and the hills
the bushy regions
the smooth plateaus
and delve into
dark crevices
that give up their secrets
from damp depths
to the tender caresses
of my skin
my lips
i shiver
at your intense scouring
of my own terrain
i cannot escape
your thorough scrutiny
your meticulous examination
of my flesh
when we have...
771 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
31st Oct 2013 2:01am
31st Oct 2013 2:01am
THE OEDIPUL SON Chapter Two: but you’re only a girl
Dorothea, Carlton’s mother, carried the innocence of childhood with her into her teenage years. She was always treated as the baby of the family; always kept in the dark about anything that her parents or her siblings thought might hurt her or tarnish her innocence.
When her first period arrived, without warning, and the blood flowed from her unchecked, she was alone in the house. She thought she was going to die; that something inside her had burst and that her life was leaking out of her like the flow from a broken tap. No one had told her about this. Not her mother, her...
When her first period arrived, without warning, and the blood flowed from her unchecked, she was alone in the house. She thought she was going to die; that something inside her had burst and that her life was leaking out of her like the flow from a broken tap. No one had told her about this. Not her mother, her...
762 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
31st Oct 2013 1:35am
31st Oct 2013 1:35am
A SAVAGE TENDERNESS
(The poet, writer or artist’s life) cannot be otherwise than full of conflicts, for two forces are at war within him; on the one hand, the justified longing for happiness, security and comfort, and on the other a ruthless passion for creation which may go so far as to override every personal desire.”
Carl Gustav Jung
A savage tenderness
lies between
the bondage of the heart
and the heart’s cruel longing
for release
We play with it
like children
play with fire
and between our wisdom and desire
we burn
We sow
the seeds
that...
Carl Gustav Jung
A savage tenderness
lies between
the bondage of the heart
and the heart’s cruel longing
for release
We play with it
like children
play with fire
and between our wisdom and desire
we burn
We sow
the seeds
that...
728 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
30th Oct 2013 9:05am
30th Oct 2013 9:05am
MOTHER'S LITTLE MAN
She used to sit on the bed
with one foot up
painting her toenails
while little puffs of cotton wool
flowered like miniature cauliflowers
between her toes
When she curled her hair
using those ugly pink plastic rollers
that were so common in those days
the astringent smell of perm fluid
permeated not only her hair
but the air around her
as well
I remember the smell
of the used laddered stockings
that she left tangled among her shoes
because I’d try them on
when she wasn’t there
and wear her pink stilettos
and...
with one foot up
painting her toenails
while little puffs of cotton wool
flowered like miniature cauliflowers
between her toes
When she curled her hair
using those ugly pink plastic rollers
that were so common in those days
the astringent smell of perm fluid
permeated not only her hair
but the air around her
as well
I remember the smell
of the used laddered stockings
that she left tangled among her shoes
because I’d try them on
when she wasn’t there
and wear her pink stilettos
and...
730 reads
6 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
30th Oct 2013 8:27am
30th Oct 2013 8:27am
THE OEDIPUL SON Chapter One: don’t expect life to be fair
Dorothea was disappointed when Carlton was born. She’d longed for a daughter who’d realize her unfulfilled dreams and ease the pain of her unhappy marriage, but Carlton had arrived with an appendage that couldn’t be ignored.
Now, when the dark clouds of depression gather in the corners of his room at night and seep like sweet molasses into his hollow heart, he imagines that he can hear her screams as he’s pushed from the warm safety and nurture of her womb, into the stark light of a cold and unforgiving world.
His mother told Carlton of her disappointment when he was young...
Now, when the dark clouds of depression gather in the corners of his room at night and seep like sweet molasses into his hollow heart, he imagines that he can hear her screams as he’s pushed from the warm safety and nurture of her womb, into the stark light of a cold and unforgiving world.
His mother told Carlton of her disappointment when he was young...
943 reads
2 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
29th Oct 2013 9:39pm
29th Oct 2013 9:39pm
TILL FRIDAY
Vincent’s hand
holds more than just
this part of me
his dark fingers
curl around my pale dignity
and all my prowess
and stern pretensions
disappear
We ease into the traffic
of the Northern Freeway
and begin our play
the radio blares a song
by Don Mclaen
that has his name
but he just smiles
and understands
that what he does
he does for rands
and what I do
is for the solemn pleasure
of his hands
His clothes are cleaner
than last time
his wiry hair is shining
it makes me think
he has...
holds more than just
this part of me
his dark fingers
curl around my pale dignity
and all my prowess
and stern pretensions
disappear
We ease into the traffic
of the Northern Freeway
and begin our play
the radio blares a song
by Don Mclaen
that has his name
but he just smiles
and understands
that what he does
he does for rands
and what I do
is for the solemn pleasure
of his hands
His clothes are cleaner
than last time
his wiry hair is shining
it makes me think
he has...
660 reads
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DARK POEM
Published
29th Oct 2013 9:31pm
29th Oct 2013 9:31pm
MIRACLES
i fell upon thorns
and you picked the flowers
that sprang from my wounds
and made a garland
for your hair
i walked on water
and you reached out
your hand
and saved me
from drowning
i laced my soul
through yours
until i could
no longer
pull away
all these miracles;
the birth and death
of a thousand days
i performed them
for you
and still you crucify me
(Digital Collage by Carlton)
© Carlton Carr 2013
http://othervoices.blog.co.uk/
and you picked the flowers
that sprang from my wounds
and made a garland
for your hair
i walked on water
and you reached out
your hand
and saved me
from drowning
i laced my soul
through yours
until i could
no longer
pull away
all these miracles;
the birth and death
of a thousand days
i performed them
for you
and still you crucify me
(Digital Collage by Carlton)
© Carlton Carr 2013
http://othervoices.blog.co.uk/
712 reads
10 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
29th Oct 2013 12:31pm
29th Oct 2013 12:31pm
BEAUTIFUL GARDEN
1
i trample carelessly
through the beautiful garden
of your eyes
disturbing
the flower beds
of innocence
2
the roses that i ripped
from their fragile stems
the fragrant petals
that i crushed
float down
your mahogany cheeks
and touch the lips
that kissed me
ignorant
of the wreckage
i would leave
in my path
3
i turned the thorns
of your longing
inwards
so they would
pierce
your soft decomposing
core
when i entered
unannounced
4
i poured...
i trample carelessly
through the beautiful garden
of your eyes
disturbing
the flower beds
of innocence
2
the roses that i ripped
from their fragile stems
the fragrant petals
that i crushed
float down
your mahogany cheeks
and touch the lips
that kissed me
ignorant
of the wreckage
i would leave
in my path
3
i turned the thorns
of your longing
inwards
so they would
pierce
your soft decomposing
core
when i entered
unannounced
4
i poured...
993 reads
7 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by oTHER_vOICES
