WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

A hard hand had her in the dirt,
twelve-year-old school skirt rent, awry;
fetor of blood and semen.

Clutching callow fruit to her breast,
insidiously inseminated; the race
programmed to propagate.

A destitute Mestiza grandmother
is taken in childbirth, slipping and keening
in a crimson flood, awash and away
after shock conception (bravely, a miracle).

Gaia barely blinked as
She spun on the callous breeze,
shivering the limbs of trees.

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Metrosexual sarong instead?
Doubt that marinates in the easy
Essex-fettled brain of Beckham.

Sing a heterosexual song in bed -
clear, strong, fine timbre. Beckon;

get limber as I sing, but

stop. as. you.

d
r
o
p

white camisole top.

<< rewind <<

What difference between effeminate guys
and females I don’t find appealing? None.

Friendship won, likely, laughing
into our fer-god’s-sake glasses
at the sexual sitcom of it all.

Fuck it.

David Beckham in that infamous sarong

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legs align, bent, three-way weft paths wend

lie, chestnut, copper, ash blond knit-knotting coiffure
lie, looselanguid in diaphanous-swathe bond
lie, soft, hush; sleep with us

lie to me, lie to you:
naïveté new, though it won’t last
past the white-witch moon on her peering arc

we’ve shed neophyte this night

✫

Near the headland, off the moor, a miller jaywalks the beach; no ordinary joe, marked victorious, bearing witch’s home-brew and salad.

In other words, d’Verse Poets’ Pub is open for business. 3pm EST Open Link Night begins its inaugural session – come along and link a poem, grab a drink and have a read of some of the great poetry on offer. See you there.

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Her top was pink.
Beneath pink lipstick,
lips were pink.
Cheeks exuded pink.

I was skint; she bought the drinks.
Rosé-tint winking
in salubrious sink, we drank.

Back to her Halls on the bank;
knickers were pink.
Hair, though, was Essex-blonde.

As pink clothing littered the litter
of a pleasant pig-stye of pink,
a pink princess went her pinkest
in a delicious Rosé-tint wink.

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Passing her, lain on the lawn of the Big
House, comfortably unclothed legs stroked by
the Midsummer sun; an efflorescent twenty-four.

Recalled the conversation
with his sister:

- She’s very serious;
likes a lot of alone time.

- So do I.

He stopped.

Raising a chestnut-swathed head,
spry eyes asked if it was for hello, or
to lech after basking flesh.

Addled by ambivalence, he walked.

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.

Snowboardable curves wrapped and sat easy
in creamy, smooth skin,
deliciouslicentious,
obscenely appetising brown eyes;

glorious in her brutally bourgeoning sex
and casual in its cruel manipulation.

Had her hands on the glans of creation;
she could squeeze semen from a stone.
Given longer, I’d have fallen to the pavement
in sweat and salt and callow yen.

Fumbling, virginal,
jumping the starting-pistol,
yet she still loved me. For three weeks.

Ventured over the tracks till four a.m.
night after night, driving drunk
on adrenaline and testosterone.
Eight Mile. The Boondocks.
Bridge into the Badlands of South Auckland City.

Wonder-lust dragged me nightly
by the scrawny adolescent neck
on a ballsy journey
that lasted longer than I did.

☆

This is factual and took place in the mid-Nineties in Auckland, New Zealand, where I was in highschool.

(Image: The Old Mangere Bridge over into South Auckland)

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Knickers in bunch,
panties in a knot

All I did was stare at you
for as long as you wanted

the fixed intent
whatever you wished it
clicked on your favourite

picture of mine
I wasn’t even online

You’re *blushing furiously*
thanks a bunch, blaming me
for dampened what-knots

(don’t even think about
an emoticon wink ;-)

I accept no responsibility for
your overspill of cybersexuality

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Cunt. Let’s get over it.

How did it become
the taboo of taboos?

In the Middle Ages, ’twas a laugh
in the streets, and in the stalls at the Globe.
The Bard himself lewdly alluding at least twice
“Her Cs, her Us and her Ts” – Twelfth Night

Hamlet, request of Ophelia’s lap rejected, mutters
“Do you think I meant country matters?”

Chaucer’s cheeky Miller’s Tale regales:
“Pryvely he caught her by the queynte”

New Zealanders
throw it about like a frisbee.

Cunt. Can we get over it?

Such a turn-on in the hotwires and
bush-fires of lust.

Say it. How phonetically East Anglia.
Angular. With megaphone and klaxon:
“CUNT!” – sex of the Saxons.

(Though probably, lingering legacy of Pax
Romana, cunning linguist conquerors that
slipped a sly tongue between tight heathen
lips in the name of Empire and Christ). Cunts -

We can all be one,
over three billion people have one -
or is that part of the problem?

Do men claim sexism when women
catapult ‘dick’, ‘cock’ or ‘prick’ as angry insults?

Cunt. Are we getting over it?

Sparingly, the most expressive word we possess.

Cunt. Write it. Say it. Shout it.
Use it cannily – but use it.

(Now that we’re over it).

☆

Friend, heed this warning, beware the affront
of aping a Saxon: don’t call it a cunt!

(from Ode to Those Four-Letter Words – Anon.)

http://www.matthewhunt.com/cunt/

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