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The stream (all workshops)

This is the stream - you can see all poems on Neopoet, live, as they are created.

 

Bimbo Bunny Fuck Poem

bimbo bunny fuck
a uterus with bangles
shaved and pierced
dried and shampooed
Spoosh, Tick Tick, and Trashed

is it true Jesus is Shesus
and has no penis anymore

i love you
Booty Juice
waddle cupcake bimbo
mambo Dancing Shoes
i am Kimbo the Love Doctor
fucking the palm of my hand
panty sniffer extraordinaire
in limbo
eating scooby snacks and disco biscuits
looking for a whipped cream buff puff

Loam (Primal Poetry)

Open to new participants - Primal Poetry - not available in my submission.

1. Monkey brain:

Beats of the ground
I heard a word
rebound rebound
and it was rain
on a tin can clatter

I could see it, rain, patter
drop,drop drum drum
no cave or hollow
was found or sung,
just an old shed
with me deck chaired
and watching the
performance chatter

you are the accumulated shed stuff
that falls under trees
when I hear the beat
I think of this
and all of the subterranean matter

Phase II... Primal Poetry Phase II

Church darkened
Candles guttering
Coffins full
Spirits departed

Garden variety
Vegetable flowers
White butterflies
Good luck

Holes in the earth
Sandy soil
Wet and raining
Fade

French horns
Thrill me
Guitar's plaintive cry
Mixed pleasures

Swirling galaxies
We are apart
She understands
She doesn't like it

Workshop: 

I KILLED HIM (Suicidal Thoughts)

I'd have knit these words in princely tongues
And cloth it with royal attires,
But this is not me writing.
This is a beta version of me trying to reach out to you,
A mental state borrowing a familiar mind,
So I leave this long note.

Drey Hommies would say this is not a poem, that the line are unfit. You know it, you all know that at least, that he'd disagree a line has to be this long. That the flow is abject and the rhythm is lost and the structure is an injustice to poetry, I mean how can you combine prose and poetry?

THE TASTE

Like a second world war
The second primal poetry
Hit the family noe
Across the universe
And questions flys

How do I feel?
When they talk?
What can I say?
What can they feel?
What are my likes like?

But the theme is
Healing them all
For their hearts sink heavily
For their souls need to be consoled
For Justice I feel to taste.

All Alone Prima Poetry stage 2

alone in the darkness
thick forest
on an empty trail...

A cabin overgrown
a little girl
this grassy town...

beyond the prairie
open field
Darkness falls...

a path through the trees
dark blue skies
light came forth
the end of the grassy road...

a light brighter than day
opened the way
to leave the woods...

into the expanse
the cosmos
from whence I came...

Workshop: 

The People... [Primal poetry Workshop]

Rhythmic rattles and soft the drums
The whistles of our shamans
Grey ghosts sitting horseback in the fog

The buffalo drift silent across the plain
Voices of the brother wolves
Singing praises of the Father

Dancing of the maidens calling the Mother
From whom all blessings flow
Asking for the harvest of the land to be rich

The children are full of laughter
Uncle stories of foolishness
The Old Shaman tales of the trickster fox

Workshop: 

Reality

Morning
Home
Naked, fat, pasty stomach.
Vulnerable
Exposed
Good for nothing.
Bad breath
Bed Head.
Still tired from the night before.
Sore back
stressed back
take back
myself.
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
and assorted daily rituals.
Lather
Rinse / Repeat
Repeat
Repeat.
Underwear
Underneath
Socks
Black pants
Belt to tighten
Over expanded gut
Middle age self image
arm through one sleeve,
arm through another.
Buttons.

Currawong ramble.

Currawong ramble.

Scowls and scrapes up the trees
Looks in the window, and sees me there
As though to say: “when I were a lad in
A lamp-lit street, I had your man disease”

Now the Currawong has flown apart
From the coup, the tart of a mother
Had left all his blood beak brothers
Had straddled twigs, to depart

Toward the rushing scrub ground
And an inverted heaven, heart
Beating earth, a shackled wing
Of everything that flight wouldn’t bring

ode to a rose that grew from concrete

tupac liked to talk of
a rose that grew from concrete
i like the idea
though now obsolete
i understand being a rose
emerging in concrete
though his version of it
takes the cake
being a fragile thing
in a concrete jungle
i understand the pain
so tupac can be the rose
the one grown from concrete
i'd like to be a peony
big and bold
the one who broke the
concrete
-the peony who broke the concrete

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