WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

- 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)

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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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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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.

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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☆

Is there someone behind me?
Silent, unblinking.

Pulling ’round from pretending
I’m not looking at you looking at me,
we share an endless gaze.

The longest three seconds of my life.

Scarlet creeps uncomfortably
onto my cheeks, searing into them
like droplets of hot fat. Lips burn.

The ground refuses to swallow me whole.

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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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