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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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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☆

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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The Dark Ages concede, recede like tides,
leaving shores to Renaissance sand-castles
built big, with shells and mortar; fairground rides

chitter-chatting dusky-distance rascals.
From beach to fair, knots in my hair, and sand,
shaken out, like doubt of change, the mask-all.
Hey, dance – try throwing shapes! An ampersand?

Just like you, to groove to punctuation.
No ampersand; sniff out a woman’s hand,
claiming back that laddish inclination.

(Stress Matrix Dectet No. 2)

☆

In my own form Stress Matrix Dectet (Stress Checkerboard Stanza). Form details can be found beneath my first, Catholics, Bankers, and Other Self-Pleasurers. Who’s up for writing one? Over ten written so far (just two by me)…

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Among the rocks and tides, I see
a reddish, soft anemone,
with tendrils longing, fluidly -
how limpid can your rockpools be?
I want it all.

With casual tenacity,
despite my dour misanthropy,
coerced to notice, favour me,
impassioned deep within your sea;
I won it all.

The tide to ride, salt on my tongue,
the fresh sealife moves in among
marine-lodged flora, lithe and young;
no chance now that you’ll go unsung -
I roam the coast.

Submerging without aqualung,
lip-licking dive with nothing on.
Detain a captive: me, just one,
to swim and surge until it’s done;
we own the coast.

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Ate a hot French tart once;
cheap but tasted good.
Had the cherry off a Danish
I was in the mood.

Kicked back with a sweet short black*
an experience lush and strong.
Filled Yankee meaty buns with sauce
carefully removed the thong.

Supped on Indian fruity lassi
slipped in a sly banana;
Summer sauerkraut tasted sweet
no sour Kraut there: a charmer.

Aussie Barbie, quite the shrimp
sounded weird, but tasty;
settle for the full English spread?
Still long for that Danish pastry…

My Kiwi fruity was quite the cutie
and juicy too, it seemed;
Island coconuts, no ifs or buts
boy, those nuts got creamed

She gobbled my deep-fried Mars Bar,
that was me wee Scots lass.
Irish eyes smiling, beguiling
gave head on me Guinness glass

My sun-kissed Saffa went Black Label
I suffered the sun to kiss her;
Zulu Princess served me dishes
admitted that I would miss her

Lick my lips at fish n’ chips
one helluva battered fish;
went berserkish for a little Turkish
her kebab was just delish

Got lucky in Kentucky
devoured her Derby pie.
Sang a paean to my Caribbean
her plantain to satisfy

Chili dips and Tequila lips
my satin Latin lover;
hors d’oeuvre served on mint cruise ships
cabin shaggin’ fever

Welsh rarebit, she seems to do it
melts like cheeses oozin’.
One thing I know for sure, though:
never suck on long, fat Cuban.

☆

*’Short black’ is Australasian for single espresso coffee. I shit ye not.

This is meant entirely humorously and if you’re offended you may be reading it upside-down :) Or you have the option of coming and beating this Brit boy to death with your crockery :) Please feel free to add a stanza…

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Thinking
need to get a life.
Missing
someone else’s wife.
Kissing
sweetly in my dreams
kissing
through the thinning seams
of her
flimsy summer dress

To caress and be caressed
to covet and be coveted
by this
unwitting enchanting
non-adulteress.

“Show me what you
looked like at my age”, I say
“Boring”, she says. Okay.

Then look into my eyes,
say some words, don’t care which.
Give me your now:
wish, wish for those things.

The phone rings. It’s time to go.

I know it, before she says it
she lets me kiss her face,
that face
and touch her black,
Oriental-black hair.

“See you later”, she says.
I’m there.

To caress and be caressed
to covet and be coveted
by this
unknowing enchanting
non-adulteress.

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I’m finished carving girls from stone,
creating women, crave to touch,
from blocks of marble – figures such

when animate, I’m not alone;
but stone is cold, and I grow old -
call on the gods to make this koan

true woman-flesh to warm my clutch.
I’m finished carving girls from stone.

☆

Second of my newly-invented form, the Octain. Details on structure/rhyme-scheme etc. can be found underneath my first Octain, Breathe. Anyone wanna give it a try?

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