WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

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(Illustration: Etching from Marcus Gheeraerts’ 1567 fable Pride Comes Before a Fall)

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loiter the tryst
covet covert lust

lollygag triptych timbre
rehearsal in triplicate

intricate self-discontent
unwilling, yet went

unsent unsoldered
unsold, yet rent; runt

ungiven, yet leant
unforgiven unshriven; grunt -

skyline severs stars from clay
inkyblack clumps, silvery dots

thinkback rotting hay sweats

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Brass monkeys - baboons with baked potatoes

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What the hell are brass monkeys?

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Some sleep like fresh-fed pups, not
spending hours ruminating in unrest,

meeting the rise of the hill,
blinking into black

while the world turns its back,
thieving the duvet. Not

mouthing in existential exhortation
at a cruel, starless sky; the still-shackled spirit.

Fighting, resisting,
finally relenting: an outdone pugilist.

The less fortunate sleep like fresh-fed pups.

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The fetid stench – the fettered, seething, bustling;
unkind to kith, the pith stays isolated.
Biodegradability in rustling
black plastic sacks and body-bags, frustrated

by rank bloodlust and bloodiest of skirmish.
Obscene onscreen finagling pity-putty;
as night claims sketchy sundown, thighs lose firmish.
The flickered violence; dick-avid slutty

slysinks the skull and shapes a man’s demeanour.
The keener and the vulner’ble affected,
manhands are dirtier (and yet, they’re cleaner).
A penitentiary: no doubt elected,

but chance to move with Truth is mealy-meagre.
Vow oust the housed-in self that dampens eager.

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An experiment using feminine end-rhyme (stress/unstress to end the lines – eg ‘mea gre’/’ea ger’) in English Sonnet format (lines have their ten syllables of iambic pentameter, plus one unstressed on the end).

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congregate, philosophise
negotiate; trip the tenuous compass of mores

eat, fuck, shit, sleep

reincarnate, empathise
dedicate; weep on white at pluperfect cruelty

eat, sleep, shit, sleep

music-make, romanticise
thus spake; plead ivory towers from gown and gavel

gather, eat, fuck, shit

painstake, synthesise
for art’s sake; frame from cauldrons of cortex conception

eat, fuck, shit, sleep

kill
kill
kill

vindicate, rationalise

run (on)

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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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Balanced within this
mounted mould of sinew and skin,

knowing – for the short stretch
I amble the earth -

I’d prefer to have, than have not,
yet with modesty and generosity;

absence of these would
sweat the scruples out of me.

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