WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

Patronise with perception
erring and blinkered



psychoanalyse, self-deception
red herrings and tinkered

Intuit into it

sniffing sixth-sense
a woman, bohemian


I bought it

pornographically
parading strictly
non-sexual bodies

Which part of “Fuck off”
confuses you?



I’m fucked, I’m off
adieu, adieu

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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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I could listen to you reading a cereal box,
she said.

He wondered.

You’d probably find me quite irritating
if you spent an hour in a room with me,
he said.

She wondered.

They were lost in wonder; the
torrential downpour of blinking ones and zeros
failed to give a shit.

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The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet -
malaise, mess, he feels descent.

Is there no purer way for us
to meet? Nature’s schemes coerce,
compel; raw meat, fuck-hormones
engorging, surging, pulling.

Time
to come
to go
to pay the rent.

The great mismatch
ensnaring fools on heat, just

dogs with Durex, hardly heaven-scent.
Those moments afterwards
feel true dead-meat, emasculated,
raison d’être done.

This great mismatch
has men out on the street, recoiling,
too, in pit-of-stomach discontent.

The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.

☆

This is a free verse rewrite of a villanelle of the same name I wrote in August 2010. Why? For the exercise, but mainly, to make what I consider to be some very important content accessible to readers who just can’t stomach form poetry (in particular, form poetry with a lot of repetition).

Note on the Latin title, Coitus non Circum: this phrase means, a) ‘Sex doesn’t work in a circle’; b) ‘No fucking around’ (ie. ‘No joke’, but also ‘No promiscuity’). Thus it has three meanings. I give credit to my poet friend Christina Maki for the Latin.

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winter
ennui hears
tuneless bird song


don’t
hold my
hand. it’s cold.


ancient
stone, country
lanes; embracing Albion


frail
December sun
thawing seized angels

☆

Hay(na)ku – inspired by Japanese haiku, hay(na)ku was devised in the early Nineties by poet and publisher Eileen Tabios in the Philippines. The name corresponds to the Tagalog phrase meaning “Oh!”/”Madre Mia!”, playing on ‘haiku’ also, of course.

Simply three lines and six words – one in the first, two in the second, three in the third. There is no restriction on syllables, rhyme or stresses. A reverse hay(na)ku inverts the structure.

Thanks to poet friend Catherine Mackie for introducing me to this form.

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The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet,
left in malaise and mess, he feels descent.
Is there no purer way for us to meet?

It’s Nature and Her schemes of great deceit,
coercing man and woman, She’s hell-bent.
The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.

Compelled, raw meat, fuck-hormones are replete.
It’s time to come, to go, to pay the rent;
is there no purer way for us to meet?

The great mismatch ensnaring fools on heat,
just dogs with Durex, pseudo heaven-scent;
the aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.

Those moments afterwards are true dead-meat.
Emasculated, raison d’être spent:
is there no purer way for us to meet?

This Great Mismatch has men out on the street
recoiling, too, in awful discontent.
The aftertaste of sex is bittersweet.
Is there no purer way for us to meet?

☆

Note on the Latin title, Coitus non Circum: this phrase means, a) ‘Sex doesn’t work in a circle’; b) ‘No fucking around’ (ie. ‘No joke’, but also ‘No promiscuity’). Thus it has three meanings. I give credit to my poet friend Christina Maki for the Latin. I have now rewritten this as free verse, for those interested.

After two male poets gave their own interpretation, female poet Shân Ellis responded to this piece, giving a woman’s point-of-view (also in villanelle format). Hers can be seen here.

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