Day four. Have we lost a day?

[martinshaw]

The sound of asleep for me is the snorting breath of my unconscious wife; brought on by formaldehyde, a melting nappy leakage from urine phosphate! She holds on to it like gold to the conservative government, then let’s go when the worlds asleep and there’s no need.

I will dance under Niagara Falls when she kicks the bucket. In fact I will kick the same bucket just to make sure. Actually, I’ve been practicing on the beach with plastic ones, the skinny blokes cowering at my looming torso and the site of my bulge sticking out like a number1 torpedo half stuck in its shaft.

In all honesty I do love her, but I also love marbles and gobstoppers, there dual value is each a slingshot straight between the eyes.

She wears a nappy because of her seeping red hog-warts and a racing sphincter screaming like, Niky Lauder in a burst of engine flatulence crashing through my nasal cavity.

Anyway like I say, I love her, and love will never die? not like the rats that keep crawling and dying up her arse.


Read more: wherewritersmeet.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=critique&action=display&thread=96#ixzz1Rjv3j3Qz

[amylou]

Oh my WTF Martin, what do I even say to your post. LOL Mine is about sunday dinner as a kid and you post this. You're crazy!!!! But it was a very entertaining read and made me laugh, but if what you write is from the heart then I just might cry. So here is mine, not the best and the ending is weak, but oh well!


Over the river and through the woods

Across town and into the ghetto
to Grandmother's house we would go
to stuff our face
with fried chicken
okra, potatoes
green beans cooked in bacon
home grown tomatoes
and cheese soufflé,
sweet tea
so sugary sweet
and homemade cake with lemon icing.

She would wait at the door
her silhouette seen in glass,
an apron covering a rounded middle
her white hair gleaming in the sun.
And up we would drive
with our bellies growling
since before the first hymn
in church was sung.

Our ticket for entry was a kiss
on her wrinkled cheek.
And safe in her cottage
we would inhale Estee Lauder's
White Linen mixed with chicken grease.
The table was dressed
like the fat women in church
wearing their finest treasures at once.
Bursting with china, silver and crystal
stuffed with the fixings of an Easter lunch

The little house on Commonwealth Avenue
wasn't always in the ghetto.
But post war homes
built by Sears Roebuck and Company
offering the American dream,
were now only good enough
for societies outcasts
and the few elderly that remained.
But I didn't care,
it was my favorite place to go
a hideaway from mother's
hormonal tantrums
where I could take two-hour baths
if I wanted
and eat maraschino cherries
if I pleased.
Grandmother never told me no.

I miss that house on Commonwealth Avenue
where the common wealthy once lived.
I miss my grandmother, my biggest cheerleader
and I miss her Sunday dinners.
I now own her china, crystal and silver
but it sits dusty in a cabinet
no time to use it, too busy to cook
in the life as an adult I live.

[martinshaw]

Amy.

I'm shocked; this is reall really good. I knew you were getting better, but this tells me you have a great future in writing indeed.

Amy please keep this train of thought.

A poem a day (or prose) is hard, and even if it's shit it's a massive learning process.

[martinshaw]

Feel free to join in the rest of you miserable gits

[amylou]

It looks like it's just you and me, I think we've frightened everyone away.

I can't believe you liked my poem. I almost deleted the post. I enjoyed writing it for the memory but had a hard time organizing my thoughts, there was so much more I wanted to say.

Thanks as always for the encouragement, I can see I'm growing and the words and thouhgts are coming easier like you promised. I've also had a really great mentor that pulled me out of stagnant waters.

[luvbooks]

I'm working on one now.

[amylou]

Yea lovebooks, glad you decided to play!

Have we met in another life?