All The Creeping Things

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132 words
3.25
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sticky snap gut her cunt
is a cantaloupe rind sunning buzzed
with fruitbugs and crazy bees he's knobbing
that sting n' he's just got the one
slow eye pricking her open his red
hands wringing drip wet n' salt pickling,
pumping a low damp beat n' she's drugged
as a sheep, yellow skins matted
sunked in her noonday-luke waterhole
his mudpaws grubbing honey sweetest
flank he ever seen, o yessir he's chomping
her pulp like a modern sin the barn's burning
her pails knocking, hissin' archedup like a stray
he's hawed n' grunted up deep
in'er like a pig's belly so soft
as her tongue now lolling, hoopinhollerin'
you best be still now 'fore I grab that
old broom n' show you
somethin' filthy. now cluck
like a good chicky, y'hear?

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  • COMMENTS
Anonymous
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10 Comments
the_italian_AntiHerothe_italian_AntiHeroover 10 years ago
i like this you grab your readers attention and kept it

i like this you grab your readers attention and kept it. You are a talented writer

LedaAndTheSwanLedaAndTheSwanalmost 11 years agoAuthor
@Anonymous

Anything for You.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago
Leda

From reading this, I have the sense you could probably write a good poem, but I don't care for this one. I suggest you try again.

todski28todski28almost 11 years ago
I got

many wierd disjointed images, and a chicken popped up somewhere, which I found so bizzare. I appreciate your explanation, and understand far better what you were trying to achieve. you are most definately correct in everything you said about poetry, best thing is since it's subjective anyones opinion, even those that post annoymous rude things can hold true, at least for them. I might if my head stops hurting have a look at some of your other work, just because diversity is better than being close minded

LedaAndTheSwanLedaAndTheSwanalmost 11 years agoAuthor
@todski28

Good poetry is all about recognizing choices and seizing them. Every single thing you put down on the page, or for that matter, don't put down, is a choice.

The exciting thing about poetry (at least for me), is suspending reality within the English language. With poems, all of the formalities of language and mechanics don't mean a thing unless they mean something to the poem.

For this poem, I wanted the language and movement to portray the impulsive, backcountry, carnal lawlessness of the subject matter, and I wanted the voice of the poem to be from the inside, speaking out. If I were to use "proper English", it would be the voice of someone or something from the outside looking in. What I wanted was to make the subject matter itself speak.

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