Some poems are made of nothing but fog
flittering blithely by on gleaming wings
so full of holes they barely stir the air
the slightest breath sends them spiraling
delirious butterflies giving their all
to one last haphazard mating before dying.
Some lyrics skim banal feet between the waves
threatening to dig into the surface
of the eagerly waiting mind, and yet
never penetrate to feel the current below.
The most adventurous of these wade prettily
haunting the shallows for fear of depth.
Still other rhymes bludgeon you
assault you with heavy, relentless visions
force row upon row of disgusting words
into your throat, until the juice of acrimony
leaves tear tracks on your neck
and pools above your collarbone.
But there are those verses,
those seductive turns of phrases
that romance, take, and leave you.
The motions of their miniscule paws
send electric shocks down your spine.
Leaving perfect footprints indented in your back.
Enigmatic is its middle meter
offering up flesh shadowed with letters
generous and mysterious by turns
filling your covetous hands and eager mind.
Fever stains seeping from curve to curve
creeping and fretful, just like lust.
Stanzas building to a frenzy of ecstasy
tinged with that perfect dash of half-truth.
Driving gasps, writhing vision, slipped control.
Until adrenaline explodes in your ears,
heart's thumping rushing through your head.
Molding its time to match the meter.
And you awaken from your pleasured trance.
Shivering, you wipe the remains of ecstasy
from the crinkled corners of your eyes.
The oddly slack skin on your cheeks may be wet.
Your lip has been wounded, bitten and bled.
But your soul is merely turned inside-out.
And the poem will have left. Without so much
as a soft press of lips hovering over your brow.
Wrapping itself in your best satin sheet
striding out the door, down the hall,
and into another's open bed.
Deliciously filling another one's mouth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My, what sharp hyperbole you have, grandmother...and such big words, too! <-- More Poems
Note: This poem really bothers me. I wouldn't have worked on it for two months if I didn't think it worthy of attention, but something about it just doesn't flow...I guess that's the point of narrating this way in poems, though.
The whole idea behind this is the way different poems can affect a reader. I'm not saying these are the only poem 'types' possible, just the ones I choose to cover here.
Some are lovely to behold, with vivid, sparkling words, but fall to pieces once studied for some real content.
The second stanza's targets are full of smooth lines, empty boxes, and shallow water. Again, they lack content.
Other poems are visceral, biting, and poisonous. They attack the reader with a barrage of wold or violent images. Instead of stroking and slowly building, they shock and disgust. Those poems can be effective and a necessary experience.
The final type get under your skin, reverberate through your mind, and forever change you (for better or for worse). They are like lovers that explode your world but do not stick around to comfort or pick up the pieces. They'll watch the aftermath from another's arms, though.
Archer.
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