There is a mind beating
a bowl of eggs in that housewife's
blouse. Her pile of rubble, the man
squeezes, regularly. They call it
late night car talk. It was not desire
that came gushing
out of the stereo, but a mouthful
of beats, a handful of Nutter Butters
poured over the seats and crushed
by the housewife's back. There's a pizza
waiting in the trunk. There's a body
tangled in the wheels.
25 Dec 09
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Interesting and well written.
the 'p' sound after the two 'b's deadens the tone when you only allow the click 'her' to transition between harmonies. the first line is a prose-opening sentence in a story or essay, and the poetry isn't made from the second line. that's the problem with this, that there's not enough poetry in it to work into my language. spacing out the words in 5 is a gimmick to give substance, but it has to follow some internal rhythm structures in the first paragraph or it just seems arty.
i think it's that you had a neat image -- the eggs beating, and tacked it onto your habitual poetry-writing style. i think it could have actually been the start of a freedom of writing for you, that you could have sang it out into a story instead of whoring it out in the poetry club.
Wow! This is SO interesting and cool! I'm trying to interpret it, but like all poems, everyone gets something different out of 'em. I have to say that the last part of L11 through to the end is what fascinates me with this. I really love the way u write! Kudos and Oreos! :-)
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