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deepundergroundpoetry.com
it was sunday and there was a woman
don’t want to write a poem, but the poem won’t write me.
& I don’t want to make love any more, just want to fuck.
you don’t have to pretend when you fuck.
she said ‘don’t have to love me, just love to fuck me.’
see, right there, I knew she was lying.
she gets angry when I spill her secrets, but if women didn’t
tell me things, I’d have nothing to write.
laid my dirty romance on a highland girl just to soothe the scratches
on her tits, but she won’t take up with a man like me, even though
we are artful & don’t have to use explicit terms like cock & cunt
when we compose erotica. it’s all there in our recherché verses,
anyone with a dime store libido can figure it out.
love does its common deed on a woman & she must hide in the
shadows of a broken heart. I tell her we are poets, that is where we
write & that is how we write. if she tells me to lay a wreath on the
grave of her darkness I will already have forgotten it.
they come through the walls at me, the dames & the dolls & the
blue angels, & maybe I loved them or thought I did. if I extort those
lurid affairs in my preambles of sorrow, it doesn’t matter. the lonely
legion who read me know what I am.
I could be a lot of things, vile & dirty & bad things –
but I could never be a poem…
(Artist unknown)
Published 2nd Nov 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 11
reading list entries 1
comments 8
reads 1410
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
2nd Nov 2016 5:55pm
Ah but you are, John. Because, you see, sometimes we don't get to choose - the readers do.
Soulful spillage of verse, but not enough to sway the reader's judgment.
Soulful spillage of verse, but not enough to sway the reader's judgment.
2nd Nov 2016 8:04pm
Beautiful verses,
'they come through the walls at me, the dames & the dolls & the
blue angels, & maybe I loved them or thought I did. if I extort those
lurid affairs in my preambles of sorrow, it doesn’t matter. the lonely
legion who read me know what I am. '
A poet, John, that is what you are, and poetry your captor....
'they come through the walls at me, the dames & the dolls & the
blue angels, & maybe I loved them or thought I did. if I extort those
lurid affairs in my preambles of sorrow, it doesn’t matter. the lonely
legion who read me know what I am. '
A poet, John, that is what you are, and poetry your captor....
2nd Nov 2016 11:43pm
This is Fantastic JohnFeddeler ... like raw honey spilling down the bark of a tree ... honest, rough ... yet I beg to differ ... you are poetry in motion even if you can't see it ...
3rd Nov 2016 12:14pm
"you don’t have to pretend when you fuck" > this line speaks volumes!
Smashing last line to an outstanding poem!
Love the picture... it suits so well...
Smashing last line to an outstanding poem!
Love the picture... it suits so well...
3rd Nov 2016 3:10pm
You don't need to employ words like "cock" or "cunt" to make an impression. I'll take eloquence over loaded words anytime. Fine job.
Anonymous
5th Nov 2016 3:24am
Sir John...there are always lines within your writes which hit me deeply because of my ability to relate to them...and I'm sure I am not the only one who feels this way...and that's the pure beauty to your poetry...you lay down something for everyone...you ARE poetry...With love always - Taryn xoxo
6th Nov 2016 6:16am
Terrific phrases, John, such as " it’s all there in our recherché verses,
anyone with a dime store libido can figure it out. " and " if she tells me to lay a wreath on the
grave of her darkness I will already have forgotten it. " really adds depth to this piece cementing your status as a poet more profound than profane.
anyone with a dime store libido can figure it out. " and " if she tells me to lay a wreath on the
grave of her darkness I will already have forgotten it. " really adds depth to this piece cementing your status as a poet more profound than profane.
