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3 60%
2 40%
Voters: 5.
Vote for the best PAIR of poems.

finger paint

Fingernail scrapes on the old oak tree's flesh
are all that really remains from my childhood.
I hadn't even realized it,
until I came home to visit mama.

I wandered down stairs after a
Tuesday nights sleep;
feet skidding across months of dust that
covered hardwood stairs (they're from the
Civil War; Mama loves to tell how they
hide a secret compartment where grandpa stuffed
his niggers when the north came for a visit).
Moseyed around the couch (still sporting the cover
from when mama starred in the seventies porno
so she wouldn't lose the house)
and finally found myself at the table.
Mama brought over a bowl of oats and honey.
"Eat up, boy... gotta be strong and thick."
They aren't very filling.
"What are your plans for today, boy?"
"Better climb that old oak tree,
it hasn't been clumbed in years."

I scraped my hands across the fingernail marks
from the last time I had climbed it.
Last time, I had scaled it in record time.
I'd climbed with frenzy and zeal up to the
sixth branch.
Only to find that divorce can really run
a toll on a woman's emotions,
and two hours of CPR can really take a toll
on one's health.

Some Kind of Magic

Who's holding your fingernails just inches from your itch?
Your whispered lisp is incoherent,
holds the burn inches from my lips.
A gasp escapes; a gutted butterfly hones in on a flame,
I leak a sliver of your name and reveal
my voyeuristic tendencies.
You, me, your golden girl dreams,
your rich Ovaltine, and your stuttering speech.

This night will be an instant (cult) classic,
shelf it right between Jurassic Park and Driving Miss Daisy.
Maybe I'll save it for a sunny... Sunday?
If only it would rain and you'd come out and I'd come out
and we'd be dripping glycerine
and lasting for a while.


A Blackbird, the Ethel of valedictions,
ascends itself on the Synagogues.
We unwind the breadth of redemption;
the façade of Torah.
Beneath the rabbit holes of singularity,
we find ourselves closer to sin.

The calm before the storm
resonates the renaissance of a dying city.
But we mustn’t anticipate the fall of Man
nor must we cascade in continuum.
No one’s going to come and save you
when the Alchemy turns the sun to gold.

The opiate of humanity,
the annunciation from the broken thorns;
we fade by the blowing of the horn.

Can you write a love poem too, Baby?


Waltz in, waltz out.
Class start at five past,
about maths, I think.
Maybe it’s Spanish,
I’d sing it to you but I
find myself distracted.
Your impersonal pronouns
scribbled on the wall are
incorrectly contracted.

But, we’ll all giggle and snicker,
it’s fun and games.
STDs were forgotten somewhere along the line
c'est comme les SDF. But hell,
let’s make our autonomous communities
proud. See if we can even beat those bastards
in Barcelona who break condoms just like

That’s not scribbled on the wall,
all the contrary,
it’s scribbled in the toilet. I would
laugh at everyone and their self pity
but I’m not cynical enough.

I’d write you a poem but
why don’t we rape our chocolate-filled teddy-bears instead?
Last edited by bassbeat77 at Sep 3, 2008,