deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Purple Prose, A Few Words, Because Poetry is Evil
Every fucked up turned down, burned out, word lover
fucking hates poetry or likes to pretend they do, because poems scream words they were too broken to speak or become pry tools to get at parts of you you didn’t want anyone to see…
The bottom of my glass wants to
show me how empty my future is
everything in this pub is slick
lacquered timber
Doug the tender wanders around polishing it all until it reflects the ocean
in a cadre of light that cause the patrons to squint as if they're all perpetually puzzled
by the sheen
the gloss
I’ve hit the sixth beer down
the pen on the bar makes me raise my lip in a sneer
at all the falsehoods presented by this
accommodating tool of fucking poetry
if I was less civilised I'd have hawked
spat on the floor
a clack from the pool table rattles the room
bigs is declared and the game is on
but it's just window dressing now
in those lines of rhyme and prose
I mattered
striding through the halls
you crumpled into my arms
your words made me whole
our lips pressed together
was addiction
in all its glory
the way the flavour kick starts neurons
the jittering stops
delicious head-spins
your words slither sinuous
pulling and pushing
you tongued my hippocampus
played havoc in my misolimbic system…
Dave waves hello to Jimmy
they fist bump
collapse into a hug
hands thump each others backs
raucous laughter disguises my whimper of pain
because I'm a deer
with C.W.D
my collarbones clank
I raise my hands to my head
try and drown common sense
that I should run away before
my body stops responding
before I fail to muster the energy for anything…
your eyes fold me into another bout of
self recriminations
each breath I become less
than the stool I'm perched on
you snake in
draped in the skin of your own demons
I can’t help but bid you
run your body down
the length of mine
leaving nail marks
on my chest
pull those panties to the side
slide on my cock
in front of the whole bar
pass me the pen
I’m inspired
fucking hates poetry or likes to pretend they do, because poems scream words they were too broken to speak or become pry tools to get at parts of you you didn’t want anyone to see…
The bottom of my glass wants to
show me how empty my future is
everything in this pub is slick
lacquered timber
Doug the tender wanders around polishing it all until it reflects the ocean
in a cadre of light that cause the patrons to squint as if they're all perpetually puzzled
by the sheen
the gloss
I’ve hit the sixth beer down
the pen on the bar makes me raise my lip in a sneer
at all the falsehoods presented by this
accommodating tool of fucking poetry
if I was less civilised I'd have hawked
spat on the floor
a clack from the pool table rattles the room
bigs is declared and the game is on
but it's just window dressing now
in those lines of rhyme and prose
I mattered
striding through the halls
you crumpled into my arms
your words made me whole
our lips pressed together
was addiction
in all its glory
the way the flavour kick starts neurons
the jittering stops
delicious head-spins
your words slither sinuous
pulling and pushing
you tongued my hippocampus
played havoc in my misolimbic system…
Dave waves hello to Jimmy
they fist bump
collapse into a hug
hands thump each others backs
raucous laughter disguises my whimper of pain
because I'm a deer
with C.W.D
my collarbones clank
I raise my hands to my head
try and drown common sense
that I should run away before
my body stops responding
before I fail to muster the energy for anything…
your eyes fold me into another bout of
self recriminations
each breath I become less
than the stool I'm perched on
you snake in
draped in the skin of your own demons
I can’t help but bid you
run your body down
the length of mine
leaving nail marks
on my chest
pull those panties to the side
slide on my cock
in front of the whole bar
pass me the pen
I’m inspired
Published 26th Jun 2022
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likes 3
reading list entries 2
comments 4
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
26th Jun 2022 2:44pm
That was masterful storytelling. Absolutely incredible. The entire scene was woven so tightly with the theme that is was masterful. Absolutely. The desolation and slow free fall, ending in a hollowed out acceptance felt ragged, and perfect, but then you maintained the ambiance of the atmosphere perfectly.
Fucking incredible.
Fucking incredible.
27th Jun 2022 10:57pm
I still think it’s lacking, but I was hammering and tinkering with it for a long time,
I really appreciate the nod to the thematics, poetry is generally a cut away medium so often it feels as if I’m trying to work the words too hard.
I still think this thing needs work, hopefully in a few months I can look over it and cut it back some more.
Desolation
Slow free fall
Poetry, it’s a hell of thing
I really appreciate the nod to the thematics, poetry is generally a cut away medium so often it feels as if I’m trying to work the words too hard.
I still think this thing needs work, hopefully in a few months I can look over it and cut it back some more.
Desolation
Slow free fall
Poetry, it’s a hell of thing
28th Jun 2022 2:22am
Bearing in mind that my customary poetry reference frame is the tried and true sonnet, I have to agree with Betty that this work is excellent, even if only for the pub slice of life depiction going on. Of course it also works as a "what qualifies as poetry" inquiry but then as I read on it became clear to me that it was about one's love of booze, well, beer at least, and the justifiable comparison of that with the delights of a terrific shag. What might a poet find more praiseworthy than this? Wine, women, and song, eh? I'm sure Anacreon himself would have approved.
I can only observe a couple of items which troubled me but the rest of the composition is quite charming.
Firstly, I am unable to ascertain from context just what the devil C.W.D. is, but I will cheerfully admit that I have never liked abbreviations.
Secondly, however, whole word choice is entirely valid and so I am very stoked about you shoehorning in "misolimbic", which when I looked it up was spelled with an E, but I knew what you were getting at, and I applaud any poet who isn't skittish about trying to educate his readers about neurological anatomy. That seemed especially appropriate.
And lastly, I can appreciate the apprehension regarding whether you consider the work finished, for I understand that painters come to a likewise point in their creative process.
Well done, sir!
I can only observe a couple of items which troubled me but the rest of the composition is quite charming.
Firstly, I am unable to ascertain from context just what the devil C.W.D. is, but I will cheerfully admit that I have never liked abbreviations.
Secondly, however, whole word choice is entirely valid and so I am very stoked about you shoehorning in "misolimbic", which when I looked it up was spelled with an E, but I knew what you were getting at, and I applaud any poet who isn't skittish about trying to educate his readers about neurological anatomy. That seemed especially appropriate.
And lastly, I can appreciate the apprehension regarding whether you consider the work finished, for I understand that painters come to a likewise point in their creative process.
Well done, sir!
https://www.cdc.gov/prions/cwd/cwd-animals.html
Thankyou for the thoughtful run down, I understand poetry, poetics and prose especially in this format is a hard line to distinguish between, I also appreciate your willingness to engage with the write.
Poets
Booze
women
Melancholy
What else is there 😂
Thankyou for the thoughtful run down, I understand poetry, poetics and prose especially in this format is a hard line to distinguish between, I also appreciate your willingness to engage with the write.
Poets
Booze
women
Melancholy
What else is there 😂
