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Agatha Prideaux Apr 2020
You and I; we are both formidable
But then, like the thin line between its two definitions
We both live in each other's opposition

You.
You always had this grace—this delicateness and feebleness
That kind that would make anyone protect you with their lives
Not to mention the talent you were blessed at birth
The way notes would dance in accord with your fingers—how formidable

I.
My sight would always give people chills down their spines
That kind that would make you either fight or flight
With the cold demeanor I was cursed upon birth
Like how I would twist the words from my mouth.

You.
You were everything the world wanted—only more, nothing less
Can you see how their eyes would spark upon your descant?
You were a living, walking goddess upon mortals
And you were the kind of formidable one would stare in awe.

I.
I was nothing the world wanted—nothing more, only less
In how I would see the hatred in their lids at the mention of my name
I was the epitome of Lucifer incarnate, disrupting serendipity
And I was the kind of formidable everyone would want to be gone.

Us.
Yes, we are both formidable
You elegantly, I grotesquely
And the thought of us, meeting even just once
Will only be this pitiful mind's apparition.
Day 14 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. I just had this prompt based on Stromae's song "Formidable" and then started writing this, then finished in 10 minutes. I don't often write free verse, but here it is! I know, this is far from what I would usually write, but this was really a spontaneous one!
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Patricians have our best interests in mind.
Administration is impartial, kind.
Keeps us laughin’, keeps us singin’—
And I’m Hildegard of Bingen.

She gets it like she gets the working class;
My head is nodding, up my Marxist ***.
White woke wedding bells are ringin’
Happy Hildegard of Bingen.

Government will gladly redistribute.
As our paychecks sing eternal tribute.
Gangsta-leanin, frontin’, blingin:
Chill with Hildegard of Bingen.

Icecaps, like medieval saints, are HOT.
Climate is in crisis when it’s not . . .
Global warning: winter’s springin’
Heating Hildegard of Bingen.

Intersectionality has meaning.
Hormones lie, biology’s demeaning .
Genderfluid queens are kingin’
Checkmate, Hildegard of Bingen.

Transnationals are cleaning up the mess;
Their CEO’s have little to confess.
Silver in the till, ka-chingin’
Profits Hildegard of Bingen.

Hildegard, the Moorish maiden, lauded.
Wokeness smiled. Diversity applauded.
Flames ascend and seraphim are wingin’
To the throne of Hildegard of Bingen.
Prompt #15: write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music.
That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of
whimsy, or repeating/inverting lines or ideas –
whatever your chosen musical form would seem to require!
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down

                                                           ­                    John Lennon

A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.

Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:

Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.

Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***,
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)

I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless *****-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.

An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)

Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?

I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Laurie Vargas was born in 1983
in Los Angeles, California, as Ruth Ayon.
(Some sources indicate Guadalajara Mexico as her birthplace)

Visit her terrible glory:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6pyZ0rGfnM
ConnectHook Apr 2020
It’s Easter in Coronaland;

The empty malls hold silent air.

There’s paranoia on demand

For Easter in Coronaland.

The baby chickens make their stand;

And pastel rabbit eggs declare:

It’s Easter in Coronaland

In empty malls of silent air.
PROMPT 12: write a triolet.
These eight-line poems involve repeating lines and a rhyme scheme.

Seriously, I think I have written WAY better stuff than this.
It was a completely formulaic write in response to the prompt...
But this Triolet is getting read and the others are barely getting 15 reads per day.
One thing about HP, it surprises one to find out what poetry others pay attention to. It is very counter-intuitive.
I think my recent *****-poem is much better poetically (?)
ConnectHook Apr 2020
> < > < > < > < > < > < > <

A White Rose said to an African Violet:

Purple darkness makes my day.

The Violet, showing forth her petals, spoke:

Let’s share some sun, okay?
PROMPT #11:
Write a poem in which one or more flowers take on specific meanings.

I didn't blow off the prompt.
I have discharged my poetic duty.
Agatha Prideaux Apr 2020
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then
So I write this love song with my paper and pen
(And now I'm back at it again)

During one hazy road trip, that one night way past ten
Even though I don't remember where or when
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then

When I close my eyes, I see you walking ahead
With your open hands inviting mine as you led
So I write this love song with my paper and pen

Your presence felt like that of a thousand men
When I feel safe in your arms when my tears have been shed
(And now I’m back at it again)

Even when you leave the words "I love you" unsaid
I feel it when you **** me thoroughly in bed
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then

You kiss your fist before it meets my cheek in counts of ten
Where flowers would bloom in violet blue and red
So I write this love song with my paper and pen

There were nights I'd pray to god as I said
"Please, let him be the last one, amen"
(And now I’m back at it again)

I close my eyes; I see you walking away as you fled
Mouthing me words that made my world drop dead
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then

I open my eyes; I cried and teared and pled
But you didn't look back even with my legs spread
So I write this love song with my paper and pen

Tried forgetting you but I loved you more instead
I thought I'm already done making you stay inside my head
—(And now I’m back at it again)
Day 12 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. It's been two days since I wrote something. I've been having relapses, but I finally wrote something. It's crazy how you can feel like you're being so accomplished and productive in your manic episodes and then feel like drowning and dying, not skipping a beat when you're having a depressive one. And this piece is a reflection of my past---as one of my friends said. It's me, pouring it off my chest.
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Poetry is the message, not the way it gets conveyed (SNIFF)
Do NOT make it your own (SNORT)
It’s not about saying it in a new way (HICCUP)
It’s all about a message delivered lyrically (BURP/BELCH)
Poetry is NOT about emotions recollected in tranquility (****)
Poetry is not about pushing the boundaries of language (YAWN)
Nor is it spasmodic unburdening (AHH—CHOO!)
Poetry has no militant agenda (GRUNT)
and Poetry is not about your prosaic observations (SIGH)

          LET’S GET THAT STRAIGHT !
I also blew off yesterday's Ntl. Poetry prompt in order to make an absolute and binding global decree regarding the definition of poetry. Have fun with that.

Love, ME
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-****** night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings
.)
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=r8lV1z4zy7g&feature=youtu.be
Agatha Prideaux Apr 2020
Secrets of Wysteria flow in the vessels of my brain
And so I do not hear, nor comprehend the calling of my thought’s train
Vowing to never be held again in constrain
Eradicating the rotten fingers pointing to my disdain

Muses of bruises, callouses, and roses
Excuses the clueless, hung in ruin’s nooses

Flagitious tongue sharpens itself with sprawling centipedes
Rusted teeth from perilous mandibles bleed as it feeds
On the oozing, ****** veins of the wicked ****** as it pleads
Maybe these are too much for one’s avaricious needs?

Mindful, careful, piercing the syringe of refrain on plump flesh
Yeuking as the substance flows on blood so raw and fresh

Amid all, the past and future gather in Sheol’s pavilion
But missing is the presence of present in emblazing vermillion
Yet fleetly missed as the siren descanted her composition
Somber statues of ivory pretense witness with volition
Saints and snakes tear each other’s throats in a languish cotillion.
Day 9 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. No prompt for today, but I tried making a certain type of poem---acrostic poems. These spell out phrases or words with the first letter of each line of the piece. Enjoy reading!
ConnectHook Apr 2020
The nuanced global metrosexuality
of the NYT,
the progressive patrician narcissism
of New Yorker,
The dark democratic dying
of the Washington Post,
the salty smugness
of Atlantic,
the effete unstrung irrelevance
of Harpers . . .
Newsweek, Time,
even Life itself:
These are passing away.
PROMPT #7:  a poem based on a news article
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