WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

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Heavy edit and repost of awful poetry I wrote circa 2008. I hope it has some of the right vitamins in this time.

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An unseasonal departure,
body bending
to unreasonable pressure;

mourning over,
the generous remainder
of a resurgent Summer day -
pushing serendipity into October -
lay devoted to celebrating
her life with the living.

No black was worn.

Cloudless, shroudless
she moved, wake-walked
through spiralling song and sway.

~ Go gentle into that good night, Tira, with love ~

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To drink her bathwater;
kneel at the altar of her temples.

To feel the mouth inside my mouth water -
the one that susurrates only
in patois of Love and Truth.

Won’t write of roses, or
the ground she walks on; such
platitudes would be an insult -
even if careening, visceral selves
know of that ecstatic tumult.

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There was a time
when sex was a capricious portcullis
and platonic playmates were few;

those I knew were bent, or bent the rules
and fools we felt when we lost the love,
not that I dug the push and shove, but

guys were vastly less complicated for a
hormonally elated-unelated semi-obscene
and masturbated hetero teen.

The portcullis guard was put in the stocks
and pelted with boxes of rancid tomatoes
for being a toxic incompetent sot;

his successor took the task seriously.
Mishandled once or twice, but the
emotional intellect of Circles of Sisters

buried a derelict teenage libido,
swiftly short-shrifting potential fowl-play of
an inner turkey, and chickens were made of

single-night Braves, limping lacklustre hungover.
After Custer’s last one-night stand with ten
beers in one hand, I opened my arms to Plato.

Circles of Sisters (prose-poetry)

There was a time when sex was a capricious portcullis, and platonic playmates were few; those I knew were bent, or bent the rules, and fools we felt when we lost the love, not that I dug the push and shove, but guys were vastly less complicated for a hormonally elated-unelated semi-obscene and masturbated hetero teen.

The portcullis guard was put in the stocks and pelted with boxes of rancid tomatoes for being a toxic incompetent sot; his successor took the task seriously. Mishandled once or twice (more nicely), but the emotional intellect of Circles of Sisters buried a derelict teenage libido, swiftly short-shrifting potential fowl-play of an inner turkey, and chickens were made of single-night Braves, limping lacklustre hungover.

After Custer’s last one-night stand with ten beers in one hand, I opened my arms to Plato.

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True deference is how I view
our meetings, cradled, innocent.
Our greetings peel, are quickly spent,

hours bulge, disfigure, warp, with you.
These keen eyes trace a joyful face
each time two friends embrace anew.

From other lifetimes roads are leant;
true deference, my point of view.

☆

This piece is in my own form, the Octain that I devised in December 2010, of which over a hundred have now been written (just five by me – this is my fourth). Wanna try one? Details on the form can be found beneath my first, Breathe.

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prostration in body-prayer
without the folly of blind faith -

tentative, to avoid vicarious
half-life percolated through
a soul not worn at the heel

reeling Ouroboros like
a front-loader on spin cycle -
each raiment a lifetime,

each undergarment a moment
of contact multiplied manifold
with every whirring revolution

veneration in body-prayer
eyes open

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grade-a pharmaceutical quality
walnut and maple syrup
danish icecream

days, days of quagmire equate
to less than an hour of

kristina time
wisdom, thoughts, advice
imbue my subconscious,
festoon the mindslap mindful

kristina time
a rarity, opportunity
snatched gladly, gratefully

i take her hand in mine,
tracing every line, reminiscent
fingers, unforgotten palms

she hears me in the wood-worm
silence and tragic mess of her
oaken front room,

where the shafts of sunlight
struggle to penetrate the dust
and small objects cast, strewn

like somebody arrives in the
middle of the night,
carefully laying them there

- do you pay someone to untidy your house?
but smile instead.
the sink has vomited. dishes upon dishes,
cutlery, congealed porridge

i love it here. never enough

kristina time
rolex oyster perpetual time
.45 calibre
twenty-four karat

pristine
kristina time

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