- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Grandiloquence
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I wrote a poem about love.
It read itself and sneered,
yanked the pencil out of my
hand, flipped the eraser tip
into suicide grip and rubbed
its own limbs into obscurity.
Then stabbed the tip into a
part of my brain I'd tried to
forget, grabbed a writhing
bundle of words and fused
the longest ones it found
to the stumps that was left.
The poem is taller now, its
stilt legs a strange construct
of precious metal rods, rare
wood, cogwheels and springs,
its arms draped in silk, beads
and hidden knives. But it can't
stand without staggering
and it can't embrace an idea.
And I don't know what it's
about. But it's not love.
- COMMENTS
anonamouseover 16 years agoif you took those stilt legs and added a bit more rhyme, you would be Yeats. But it stands head and shoulders above...maybe because of the stilts
lorencinoover 16 years agoWow, this poem is like a highwire act in the way it makes my heart race with excitement.
Angelineover 16 years agoShould it be "stumps that were left"? My only nitpick. Loved it otherwise.
Your poem has been recommended in the New Poems thread on Literotica's Poetry Feedback and Discussion forum.
LeBrozover 16 years agoOhhh, that's good. The predictable course would have been to have the poem rewrite itself into a masterpiece. Instead, you take it in an unexpected direction where it writes itself into an unrecognizable form. What poet hasn't experienced that?!
