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.

14 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

- Eye for the ladies, lad?

- Yes (hesitantly)

Who in hell doesn’t?

My Achilles tendons
hurt as a teen

- Growing pains?

- Yes (naturally)

Not so sure now.
Still ache (relentlessly)

8 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

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

7 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

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.

10 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

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.

9 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

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.

11 people like this post.

Like

Unlike

.

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)

2 people like this post.

Like

Unlike