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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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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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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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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.

If onanism means we’ll read in Braille,
Hellish future for mistakes committed.
If Papal dignity is to prevail,

counting of these sins should be omitted.
Forget it, mate, let’s oil the rusted gate;
for my sake, please take these acts committed,
and let my swelling diction penetrate.

Children grow up guilty private bankers,
(or laundering the stains, at any rate).
Vatican stays gold, like Dow high-rankers.

Urinals at the Vatican... (pinch of salt here - and Photoshopping by someone as yet unnamed. Too good to miss though)

Form – newly invented! Stress Matrix Stanza/Dectet (aka Stress Checkerboard Stanza/Dectet). 10 lines, 10 syllables per line.

a-B-a | B-c-B-c | D-c-D

where lowercase are iambic pentameter and uppercase are trochaic pentameter – they alternate the whole way, giving a perfect ‘checkerboard’ of stressed and unstressed syllables, ten lines down x ten syllables across (=100 syllables completely evenly distributed and the rhyme scheme also utterly even/symmetrical mathematically). For those unable to do the iamb/trochee thing, you could try it just counting ten syllables per line. You’ll be missing my main aim of the stress checkerboard, but it may well still be a nice form. We wait and see…

If I highlight the stressed syllables (and remove the stanza-breaks), you can more clearly see the ‘checkerboard’ of stresses and unstresses evenly distributed over the 10×10 (100) -

if O | na NI | sm MEANS | we’ll READ | in BRAILLE,
HELL ish | FU ture | FOR mi | STAKES com | MI tted.
if PA | pal DI | gni TY | is TO | pre VAIL,
COUN ting | OF these | ‘SINS’ should | BE o | MI tted.
for GET | it, MATE, | let’s OIL | the RUST | ed GATE;
FOR my | SAKE, please | TAKE these | ACTS com | MI tted,
and LET | my SWELL | ing DIC | tion PEN | e TRATE.
CHILD ren | GROW up | GUIL ty | PRI vate | BANK ers,
(or LAUN | der ING | the STAINS, at AN | y RATE).
VAT i | CAN stays | GOLD, like | DOW high | RANK ers.

No offence to any Catholics :) I’m sure you can see that this is a statement agains the old-school belief that masturbation is sinful and unhealthy. We have a common word for it in Britain – ‘wank’/'to wank’/'wanker’ (hence the ‘bankers’ etc).

Thanks to poet friend Carys for the brilliant title (all but the ‘Catholics’ part, which I added. Am I going to Hell now? :) )

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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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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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