"marxian" poems
Let us start with a piece of linen
Crisp, white, laundered
Its value lies in golden tendrils
simultaneously probing all
its geometric possibilities:
A cotton skirt, twirling, unfurling
on late April grass,
stretching itself just enough
to graze fingertips.
Making arms around a young groom
Snuggling closer under the heavy suit.
A child's plaything--smiling, pretending,
waiting.
Or maybe it's just this tattered sheet
the only thing between me and the bleak
pitter patter
drumming sonic shapes
on my windowsill
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
A female Buddha,
the way she sat, not
love making, that some
other. Cross-legged,
he remembered her,
on that blue sofa, the
Mahler playing from
her hi-fi, her oval face,
soft features, that loud
laughter, the Glaswegian
accent cutting through
the attempted English
tones. The bottle of whisky
opened, the glasses filled,
supped, sipped or what
ever the word is, it happened.
It’s no good taking some
people out of the slums,
she said, you need to take
the slum out of the people.
She looked then nothing
like the former nun she
had been, he thought,
perfume invading the nose,
her hair piled in some out
of date Beehive, some
French queen prior to
revolution, she sat, glass
in hand, other plump
hand toughing his thigh,
rubbing her fingers up
and down. She wanted
to stir his pecker, wanted
motion through his jeans.
He listened to Mahler,
gazing beyond her at the
painting on the wall, that
tat she collected. Her
hand rubbed higher, her
soft tones suggestive, her
talk of slums and slum
dwellers put aside. An
evening of *** ahead, in
bed or on the sofa, with
the female Buddha, her
plump ******* thighs,
arms, maybe lost there
amongst the folds of flesh.
She despised his Marxian
philosophy, loved his
****** prowess, his proud
perfect pecker. He loved
her whisky, her soft to
touch skin, her spread legs
to allow him in. The female
Buddha gone now, her
heart gave out, he was told,
and looking back, years after
years, his youth misspent
at times, too much *****
*** and moral lack, he had
moved on, improved, but
loved to smile and look back.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
She reflects. Time,
Time patterns, events,
Sorts them into allotted
Compartments inside
Her head. Or attempts
The task whilst smoking,
Sensing the smoke hit
The back of her throat,
Trying to keep thoughts
In order, separate the
Chaff, the small talk,
The did I tell you what
So and so did, kind of
Chatter, nothing of
Importance, no real
Matter. Toadbody
Imported philosophy
Into her mind, the left
Wing Marxian kind,
But ****** her well at
The same time. He had
A wart on his *****
Felt rather than seen,
Somewhat like the love
Of God, she thought. She
Knew she had the pox.
Another Toadbody import,
A parting gift no doubt,
After the rude disagreement
And noisy rout. She inhales
The smoke. Remembers
Toadbody’s attempts at
Long lasting *** as a huge
Joke. She still dreams of
Capitalism’s demise, the long
Ago promised revolution to
Come over the hill of history
Like a ****** out *****
Murdering millions, pretty
Much as it did before. She
Imagines Toadbody importing
Into another dame his weak
Philosophy, ***** and love
For want of a better name.
She is free of him. Out on
A limb, staring at stars and
Moon, waiting for God or fate
To bring her another love or
Lover or sexually satisfying mate.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC