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"mcdougall" poems
i felt like talking that night reciting poetry to your big blue eyes and raw pink mouth smiling high as a wind whipped kite discussing art, ontology, and existentialism sitting like lotus at the Cafe Figaro on McDougall st in the west village belly of a ghost lost in a vagrant memory afterwards we went to a little one bedroom flat in the east village haunted by the vapors of its history a slight stench of **** and dingo tongue dripping toilet all peeling walls intimating births, cheer and squalor after a hot bath of lathered torsos we followrd each other naked winding around a table into a swaying bed that beckoned **** here my darlings and i licked and drank out of your drenched rose red blossom for hours it licking back I salvaged the loneliness of my soul between your thighs like a desolate dog whimpering thanking God with every graze and ****** of your all supple shifting limbs your company your company your sweet droplets of company in moon rise summer balm we looked in the mirror reflecting on my glistening face all red raspberry my lips like blood hydras laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked smeared with your rouge painted thighs appearing as if half eaten you growled swallowed and licked big butter piggy till your nose ran like the Ganges gagging eyes bloodshot pools of fire cooing and oowing driving me maniacal with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue we poured our selves into each other viscous creels gushing coursing like slime silver radiating and finally used to the marrow we found ourselves drooping sails our eyelids  leaden the night mist fell upon us   muttering shadows and our *** shriveled like cast-off umbilici and we fell to sleep steep steep buoyant like two buttermilk clouds adrift your company your company your sweet droplets of company in moon rise summer balm
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Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
zebrablack
CAFE FIGARO
i felt like talking that night reciting poetry to your big blue eyes and raw pink mouth smiling high as a wind whipped kite discussing art, ontology, and existentialism sitting like lotus at the Cafe Figaro on McDougall st in the west village belly of a ghost lost in a vagrant memory afterwards we went to a little one bedroom flat in the east village haunted by the vapors of its history a slight stench of **** and dingo tongue dripping toilet all peeling walls intimating births, cheer and squalor after a hot bath of lathered torsos we followrd each other naked winding around a table into a swaying bed that beckoned **** here my darlings and i licked and drank out of your drenched rose red blossom for hours it licking back I salvaged the loneliness of my soul between your thighs like a desolate dog whimpering thanking God with every graze and ****** of your all supple shifting limbs your company your company your sweet droplets of company in moon rise summer balm we looked in the mirror reflecting on my glistening face all red raspberry my lips like blood hydras laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked smeared with your rouge painted thighs appearing as if half eaten you growled swallowed and licked big butter piggy till your nose ran like the Ganges gagging eyes bloodshot pools of fire cooing and oowing driving me maniacal with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue we poured our selves into each other viscous creels gushing coursing like slime silver radiating and finally used to the marrow we found ourselves drooping sails our eyelids  leaden the night mist fell upon us   muttering shadows and our *** shriveled like cast-off umbilici and we fell to sleep steep steep buoyant like two buttermilk clouds adrift your company your company your sweet droplets of company in moon rise summer balm
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Growing up in a small town, we didn't notice the background figures of our lives, gray men, gnarled women, dropping from us silently like straightpins to a dressmaker's floor. The old did not die but simply vanished like discs of snow on our tongues. We knew nothing then of nothingness or pain or loss— our days filled with open fields, football, turtles and cows. One day we noticed Death has a musty breath, that some we loved died dreadfully, that dying sometimes takes time. Now, standing in a supermarket line or easing out of a parking lot, we realize we've become the hazy backgrounds of younger lives. How long has it been, we ask no one in particular, since we've seen a turtle or a cow? "Straightpins" by Jo McDougall, from Satisfied with Havoc. © Autumn House Press, 2004. Reprinted with permission.
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Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
jsnape
Straightpins by Jo McDougall
Growing up in a small town, we didn't notice the background figures of our lives, gray men, gnarled women, dropping from us silently like straightpins to a dressmaker's floor. The old did not die but simply vanished like discs of snow on our tongues. We knew nothing then of nothingness or pain or loss— our days filled with open fields, football, turtles and cows. One day we noticed Death has a musty breath, that some we loved died dreadfully, that dying sometimes takes time. Now, standing in a supermarket line or easing out of a parking lot, we realize we've become the hazy backgrounds of younger lives. How long has it been, we ask no one in particular, since we've seen a turtle or a cow? "Straightpins" by Jo McDougall, from Satisfied with Havoc. © Autumn House Press, 2004. Reprinted with permission.
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