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PINS in SCABS

THE NEVERENDING SLOPE of MOON’S EDGE is

 

all of you

And your shadow.

 

To trace your outline

With my finger

Would somehow rob

Perfection

Of all its

Artistry.

 

 

THE SPRINGTIME SHAKE

I didn’t notice your eyes

As you walked on by

And barely noticed the parking lot traffic.

What caught my attention was your milkshakes in see-thru cups,

Set firm in the carton tray you carried—

Creamy strawberries have always been my favorite.

 

 

SHE STOPPED LOVING ME

 

because I love art and poetry.

I still paint and write,

She’s long gone.

True love stays—

True story.

 

 

DOES it NOT SEEM THAT

 

one woman’s “better off without”

Is another woman’s everything?

 

 

Country with a Wind through the Willow Song Ending

You barely loved me for who I was.

Your love was more an idea

Of everything I could be—

For you.

I see

That it’s never,

With you,

About true love but

About what tickles you down there

First, last, and

Inbewteen.

 

 

DON’T FORGET to JUXTAPOSE

 

first and last lines.

Why is it

That women appreciate

A well dressed man

And men appreciate

Undressed women?

 

 

BIGFOOT and the BOOGEYMAN

 

 

Should women be

As hairy as she?

She’s downright

Bear rug-esque.

I’d be afraid to see

Her really hairy place down there;

Afraid it might resemble

Bigfoot and the boogeyman fighting.

 

 

A FANCY MOTEL SIX

 

The 6 motel is

The go to resort

For all things carnal.

Its walls and floors

Are painted and textiled with

Shady activity residue

And fresh track evidence

Of skin-safari adventures;

A Funyun crumb reek permeates

And every bed has flipped

Its odometer and is scarred with

Buns-on-mattress impressions.

This motel is, really, just

A place for extra, extra, horny people.

 

 

Weave a Classical Tapestry

 

 

Tune your pipes for the symphony

Reinforce your rugburned knees

Put your lips on the mouthpiece

Apply pressure on my timber—

Search the score for scales

Of a lowland timbre.

Blow the French horn,

Honk the tuba,

Thread a heavy-horned windsong—

Weave a classical tapestry.

Follow through with skin-flute flutter ,

Be the butterfly over tempest sea,

Sprinkle stardust down

Over woodland.

Embrace the swans that leave the pond

Spin the crescendo, ever-tighter, to

The bombastic crash of the gong.

 

 

SEX POEM

 

(30 seconds later)

 

She: where was the love

In that?

 

He: what was

Your name again?

 

 

FLESH ENTERED FLESH

 

The sheets soaked

With the artistry

Of our flesh union.

Now, beyond us

Embers, the near silence

Tells the tale—

That we’re

Not even lovers just

Aroused flesh.

 

 

 

 

 

HER MOST PRECIOUS RESOURCE

 

How dare she sit

And give away her most

Precious resource!

It’s not to be

Squandered on

Just any ol’

Tom, Dick or Harry.

Okay, maybe on

Harry, but, for sure

On Dick.

 

 

 

ALL YE BROKEN-HEARTED WOMEN of POETRYDOM

 

How can love be permanent?

It’s needed in CHINA just as much as THE STATES.

Love is the most wanted thing in life.

But it, too, needs the occasional vacation.

After so many centuries

of it being pieced-out to all,

how can love not be

wayworn, or, mostly, in tatters

to the modern generations?

If it stayed with you too long,

how would the rest of us know love?

 

 

 

BOOBS on THE RIGHT BODY

Stop! Don’t drink that.

It will make you grow

Man breasts.

Unless, of course,

That’s what you want?

 

 

A MOUNTAIN of BAND-AIDS

 

Underneath, she

Still is

Insistent

That

Prince charming,

Somewhere,

Walks this earth.

 

 

 

ON FORGETTING (me)

 

But it’s only in

Your world

That I don’t exist.

 

 

 

 

DIVORCE

 

I can’t love you

Anymore,

You’re too expensive

 

 

 

 

Cooking in Tight Quarters

 

“The kitchen smells fine,

The bathroom too.”

 

Please don’t do this, reproach me

With that “holier than thou” attitude.

We season each other

With an equal stinkness

Confined in this tight space.

You are burnt beans,

A fresh open can

Of sardines;

I am foul milk

And over-cooked liver.

Even so, we are a

Well-balanced meal together.

My cooking utensil

Sticks out of your drawer.

This must be why

You ignore my chopped-liver aroma

And the reason you flavor

The most tender side of yourself

With my marinade?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To: BALLBUSTER

 

 

NOT NOW, I’M BUSY with SOMETHING CALLEDLIFE!

 

I know!!! I know already!!!

 

It may not be living

To you but

Who the hell are you

And how are you the authority

On what

Living “my life” is???!!!

 

And no more busting my balls

About this, OKAY???!!!

 

 

 

 

SEX ADDICTION & SPACE ALIENS

 

 

So an online friend and I

Were chatting via IM

And both being artists

The topics were going

Everywhere and

Turning on a dime.

Somehow the chat

Had morphed into

The topics of “sex addiction

& space aliens.”

I spoke of the fear

Of probes and not wanting

To ever go to prison.

She spoke of human nature

And how far backward

We’ve evolved as a species.

We found middle ground

Pondering over wanting to

Get off this planet.

We agreed on how most

Spent the best part

Of their youth

As well-dressed

Sex savages.

 

 

 

WORD JUMPING

off

TALL TOWER

E

V

O

L

 

 

 

 

 

 

JOYSTICK

 

 

She told me her marriage was on the rocks.

That she put on sexy lingerie

To surprise him, laying across his legs as he sat,

An attempt to entice him (and she was a firecracker).

She said that when doing that

He told her to “move! You’re blocking.”

She took a drink from her beer and continued to tell

Me, said that it wasn’t the first time such sexual rejections

Had happened with him,

And that he preferred his video game marathon binge

Over such interruptions.

She said the joystick was his addiction.

Soon after sharing all this with me

She was officially divorced.

She started dating a new guy and,

Found her own joystick.

Sometime shortly after,

She had her first “baby bump.”

 

 

FRONT and CENTER WATCHING

LAST GALACTIC STRIPPER

 

Planets overlapping

Elbowing one another

For some

Orbit room

A STRANGE SOUP of MELTED CRAYONS in EARTH’S EMBRACE

Remove the sun and the moon

From the painting that is becoming,

Let the words write themselves

Without thought orchestration,

Let all arrows ever launched by cupid

Dislodge from flesh—roots intact with them.

 

Trees that grew to towering heights of partial

To complete regret petrify

Above all bull’s-eyes now in boxes

That once walked this love-toxic marble

And who, are now, to materiality, the never dreamt.

 

 

 

FROM THE EDGE of the LAST PLANET on the FURTHEST PART of INFINITY

Love sends its condolences
To those looking for it.

 

 

  • * * * * * * * * *

 

Material for PINS in SCABS

First published in electronic format online in July 2016.

All content written by, and cover art design by author RJ Williams.

All Rights Reserved RJ Williams/Sorrow Seed Press © 2016

 

  • * * * * * * * * *


PINS in SCABS

Poetry eBook by writer/artist RJ Williams, PINS in SCABS, narrative and free verse poems, many micro-poems inside; the "theme" of love and its undoing as it often happens in modern relationships. this eBook contains 26 poems total, published online in July 2016. (poems of love and break ups) Cover art by EL Paso artist RJ Williams.

  • ISBN: 9781370698882
  • Author: RJ Williams
  • Published: 2016-07-27 21:50:07
  • Words: 1131
PINS  in  SCABS PINS  in  SCABS