Formerly Badass Horrible Poetry

This isn't just a poetry blog. Let's be honest, a lot of what I post is poetry but there are more often than not also postings about short stories. I do try to keep this blog separate from my others and post strictly creative work here. Some of it will be better than others, and much of it is in first or second draft stage when posted. These are raw works, and there will be spelling and grammar troubles at times because I use this blog to gauge what works and what doesn't. I use it as a place to get feedback. That's the reason it is "horrible". Because it's not finished-- And why should it be? We all want feedback but most of us are too afraid to put ourselves out there.

Welcome to my word.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Sweet Nothings


 Sweet Nothings

{insert your penis-dick into my hump hole}
I said that to you
and you laughed not
at me
but at the hazy sky
shot through by flood lights
city flood lights
we'd spread the blanket out
to gossip about stars
but this is allentown
so we see nothing
looking up
so I looked down
{by your crotch}
and said
{insert your penis-dick into my hump hole}
and we settled on your tongue
and the laughter catapulted us
into the sky
to perch on a low hanging satellite
to better look down
at the fire-net-work
a firework in all stages of explosion
flared out
a nervous system
that pulses or twinkles
and maybe you were laughing at me
but it filled me with methane
and lifted me
or drifted me
and it's because you laughed
with woven crow's feet
and banged your head on a passing plane
and lifted me up just enough
for us to fall
from the same height
that I meant 
what was said

©2014 Lex Vex

saFRAphGMENoTED

I Would Not Think to Touch the Sky


For we, daring in our youth, among mortals,
lay down our limbs to gain the harbor.
Waiting, in dripping pain, to fight for
what country seduces our wits.

Our eyes
on the Black Sleep of night,
alone I lie, moon has set, the hour goes by-
I can tell tales of the unexpected, yes, of many beautiful things.

Lady Dawn, flesh by now old age,
takes up the Lyre, sings to us, trembling,
"Me you have forgotten.
Dream of black, and I will go,

with arms of roses, to the ends of the earth:
for I swear, I did not want to give you pain."





fragments used found in poems (chronologically as found in poem): 52, 24a, 24c, 23, 46, 20, 19, 37, 60, 57, 151, 157, 22, 24d, 94, 95, 113, 120, 168b, 4, 18, 16, 21, 63, 70, 58, 67, 3.

©2014 Lex Vex

Sunday, October 19, 2014

xyz


xyz


how embarrassing                for you            your soul is
poking out                  I have a good
tailor:              she has a mannequin
like you a tattooed                harlequin inside.
it doesn't look that bad        your soul        kind of like an otter
its slippery in the river                     and playful
especially when wet             it drips off you
with humid passion and pools  and ices over like lace and         even though
you dress       like a frumpy prep-school
girl rebelling from dress code         but this is about your soul remember
your eyes really are that otter
your soul                    a vixen huntress       or a falconer    maybe
they share a few in-laws                  and I wanted you
to know          cause thinking about your
soul     untucked or maybe              dangling in open air                         is making me
            really hot right now  is it ok if I touch it?


©2014 Lex Vex

alchemy in confection


alchemy in confection


I only eat de
constructed milk
chocolate ice
cream sweet
cream dark
chocolate
they touch
on a border
and I suppose
their sweeping
clouds mist
cocoa, dampening
each cows moo-spot
with a mud-slide
they touch
but only the brave curdles defy me
to dance into
milk chocolate
I suppose it doesn't really matter
I eat them both
and lick sweet cordial
from my plastic
spoon 

©2014 Lex Vex

Monday, October 13, 2014

This could have all been Avoided if he had Slapped a Flag on the Top - an absurdist story


This could have all been Avoided if he had Slapped a Flag on the Top
 
“No no Sport – you’ve made them lopsided” Cohen said.
Cissy paused where she was. Cissy slumped the flaccid bLock against another. Cohen chewed on his lip, a sure sign that he was either disapproving or about to excuse himself for creative buildup {sharting till he clogged the unisex park restroom}
            Either way, Cissy took her hands off of her hips and panted {efforts of block hauling} with perfect posture. Cohen brought his fingers up to square off his creation {being neither painter, photographer, nor filmer, this did little but make him seem more artistic}
            “I’m telling you, Sport, you’ve upset the whole thing.” He said, megaphone raised.
            “Its perfectly even—we’ve counted the number: 874,600,042 gassed, 874,600,042 exploded.” She said.
            “Then how come the right side is so much shorter?” he said.
            Cissy’s focus snapped to her feet, where her new Vidorci pumps sank into the bLock. She adjusted to the balls of her feet to keep the bLock from being punctured and spurting up her ankles. She could not afford new designer leggings if she already had to by new Vidorcis.
            “You did account for limbs, right?” she said.
            “You did account for limbs, right?” he said.
            “I mean it, sir.” She said.
            “With the state of things, the limbs would make a net loss of about six inches.” He said. He had forgotten to bark at her through the megaphone and stood, his arms crossed and squinting past the lumpy forms of the bLocks raised in two towers.
            “We don’t have to make it taller, sir” she said.
            “Flibber flapjacks.” He said.
Cissy exhaled through her nose. The scent of stale barbeque and mustard made her swoon a little from where she stood, 554.5 feet in the air.
            “We could extend it out, make it like a wall” {like with the Vietnam} she said.
            “No one cares about a monument’s length! They only want to know about its height! How tall can man erect a memorial, so they can remember! It pokes the sky – poking is a stimulus, it triggers memory. Walls don’t remember – walls make people wonder, and wonder leads to thinking. Walls are barriers and barriers are failures” {like with the Vietnam} he said.
            Cissy only half listened to the rest, as he described the beauty in erecting monuments, their completion, the parties, and the tourism it developed and had always developed and eventually how, in Cohen’s early childhood, he had gone through his biggest life developments in front of proud pinnacles of accomplishment in marble. His stint in the army began there, he’d smoked his first bowl there, he’d first fingered a girl {behind Lincoln’s very back} for gosh’s sake.
            “So go and get some!” Cohen finished.
            “Some what?” Cissy started.
            “Some limbs, you ninny!” he said.
            “Oh. We don’t have them.” She said.
            “Why not?!” he said.
            “Vaporized.” She said.
            He frowned {this made her smile} She pretended to itch her nose with the mid-finger on her left hand and then chewed on the nail of her thumb {she got some red on her nose}
            “We told them it would be taller than the Washington monument.” His voiced crackled through the megaphone.
            Cissy looked between the right cylinder and the left {six inches castrated} —how they spiraled up in a staircase of preserved bLocks.
            “Who is going to check, sir?” she said.
            “The people! When they wish to remember the war and our triumph! And read on her steps, and play and climb {and finger girls} and gaze across the street wishing they were {fingering each other} at the inferior but taller Washington!”
            Cissy scuffed her shoe on {the lapel of} the block beneath her. He had a point.
            “Where should I get the limbs?” she said.
Cohen waved his hands around, fluidly, as if performing a spell upon all the earth like a {hair thinned, jewel toned} wizard.
            Cissy hated getting donors. Her pump was still sinking dangerously into the fleshy bLock. She sat down to swing her snakeskin-clad legs off the side of the column. Her feet were tired.
            “You know, sir, if we dug a trench an’ simply lowered the pillar of gassed bLocks into the ground, people could walk down into it – we could line the walls with the bodies—“ Cissy was fast to correct herself {but not fast enough for the narrowed eyes and puckered lips of Cohen} “—bLocks.”
            “And what might that accomplish?” he said.
            “Well, sir, it would humanize the struggle” she said.
            “Humanize the Enemy?” he said. She could hear him capitalize on the word enemy.
            Cissy’s legs wandered in figure eights in the air below her {her butt was falling asleep} On a back swing, one of her heels stuck on a bLock and when she plucked the stiletto out, she had a morsel skewered to it. The morsel started at her with a dilated cloud of pupil. She scraped it off on some blonde hair below her and brought her feet to her knees {her stomach grumbled}
            “I thought it could be interactive, like Vietnam” {Cohen psh’d}
            “You want the people to interact? Then find me some donors.” He said.

            Cissy sat next to the man, who was neither old {nor young}, handsome {nor ugly}, dark haired {nor fair}. He smelled a bit and had days old stubble, but his smile was bright and his lips only slightly chapped when she sat down {just a little too} close to him. He did not seem surprised at her solicitation, and offered both his left arm and his right leg, citing that he would like his dominant sides for racket-ball practice this afternoon. The sawing process Cissy found clean and simple and when she left he smiled and waved {with his right hand} They were bulky, in her arms, the arm and the leg, but most park goers she passed held only mild curiosity; everyone knew about the new monument. A few volunteered to give what they could, even if she did not ask first. Some felt obligated, and some wanted to be able to point out to their friends where they were a part of the new installation. In the end, Cissy, with a few of the park patrons {too stingy to give anything but their time} carried the bundle to where Cohen stood, tapping his foot, holding his megaphone and rubbing the war medal on his lapel {erotically}
            As Cissy lay out the haul:
            “Patrons, this is artiste and drone division colonel Cohen.” She said.
            Some of the veterans in the group shook his hand. The bolder ones compared hit counts on their own badge’s LCD screen. Cohen {between pleasant teeth bearing and trading slaps on the rear} barked at Cissy through the megaphone.
            “Count the new load,” he said.
            Cissy counted the new load. Four arms, mostly left. Three legs. A teenager had given a portion of her mid-finger, and her curly haired friend {rolling her eyes} had given her entire big toe. {It could be enough} Cissy thought. She told Cohen the number, reaching for a glass of champagne {Cohen swatted her hand with sharp force} When she went to place the new bLocks atop the crown of the explosion pillar, Cohen {popping the champagne for the unveiling a week early} megaphoned that she should intersperse them artistically {and not like a prude}  
            “What about the height issue?” she said.
            “I planned something perfect while you were out, sport.” he said.
Cohen raised a glass to her and when she turned around tossed it, crystal glass and all, into the rhododendrons. The crystal cried in an infinite loop as it tinkled glitter.

Cissy was not dressed at all for the weather but at least she’d had her pumps prepared. Honestly, she thought they looked a little silly paired with the Colossus Jersey she slept in, but when she approached Cohen pacing around the dewy grass, he smiled appreciatively at their little pointed toes.
“You called me, sir?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Which one of us is talking? I cannot tell.”
Cissy tried again.
“You called me, sir?” She said, making sure to say she said.
“It’s not tall enough.” He said. His hand was pointed heavenwards at the top of the cylinder. Cissy was a bit surprised he had donated it. His other hand lay on the ground, next to the bundles of clothes, which had been worn, earlier, by the patrons and veterans drinking champagne. She was less surprised to see the patrons gracing the top of the explosion column, underneath Cohen’s hand.
“Don’t you think people will notice that those bLocks are not POWs?” she said.
“No one looks that closely at those represented in memorials.” He said.
“They do at the Vietnam.” She said. {Cohen’s lip quivered} Cissy sighed and picked up his left arm.
“Where did you want this?” she said, rubbing her thumb soothingly over his palm. He blushed {he had an itch on the back of his head he could not reach}
“The top of the gassed tower. It’s short by six inches.” He said through his megaphone. Cissy stooped to pick up Cohen’s arm. At the base of the tower she turned to catch Cohen’s eyes. They shined like lucid crystal and the line of his mouth softened at he gazed up at his creation. Balancing her feet in her shoes, Cissy settled on the first step.
The sooner Cissy finished erecting the monument, the sooner she could go home, take out her brain, and go back to sleep.

©2014 Lex Vex

Monday, October 6, 2014

Form Poem: the Found Triptych: Three Animals of Book

This is a found form poem with a new twist: the Found Triptych. each line must be taken from a single page of text in a different book or work. No found books may be by the same author and different styles of writing will be encouraged, although it is ideal to find all these books picked randomly from the shelf, and with the line used chosen on a randomly selected page.  The poem must be made up of at least 10 lines per stanza, and each stanza, three in total, must have the same books used, in the same order, from the same pages. You may change character names and the pronouns to fit with a particular triptych, but meaning is only a fraction of what the work is about. This form tries to excise the poetic out of the prosaic narrative. At least one work must be non-fiction, one work must be children's literature, and two must be books you have not read and know nothing about.

Three Animals of Book

i.
Lion, leader of the underground, had hesitated.
This work was strictly voluntary
because when you cut yourself or someone else with it, there's always a bloody show.
Lion tried to sell the baby clothes in the rain
meanwhile, there's rent coming due and so forth.
Enormous hordes of naked souls she saw
and barricaded herself inside her home, rather than
pointing at the sliced and ripped bear head.
and she reached up and freed the sheet and pulled it from the first canvas
"They only stole paper records which was stupid everything's backed up digitally now a days"
Lion stopped looking at herself in the stream. 

ii.
Bear hesitated only as long as it took to pull the trigger;
the windmill presented unexpected difficulties
but even its pretensions can't hide the fact that its an extremely sexual
fallen marble pillar.
Bear is a pussy hound;
the jagged thunderbolt he pierced her with
revealed that around two o'clock in the morning
a knife or razor had sliced open the cushions of a maroon loveseat
so he made long passionate love on the painter's velvet couch.
he was tangled up in the sheets and slept peacefully;
it was really quite a nice taste, when you get used to it.

iii.
Dog didn't hesitate at all, and that was why she fell;
all that year the animals worked like slaves
it must have been at least ninety degrees up there.
bear must be wondering how that blood splattered floor and his roses are affecting dog.
a cadillac of a certain length, whose arrangement of dings seem familiar
sailed from the last gate of the dead
to make a fingertip search of the city:
an assortment of throw pillows rested on the carpet like little gutted animals.
with a look on her face lion would later describe as dream ecstasy
dog sat completely engrossed in her book.
there's a notice about knocking and ringing outside her door.


©2014 Lex Vex

Books used, in order by lines:
1. Generation Dead by Daniel Waters
2. Animal Farm by George Orwell
3. The Body by Stephen King
4.  Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
5. Inherent Vice by Thomas Aynchon
6. The Inferno by Dante Alighieri
7. A Dark History: The Popes by Brenda Ralph Lewis
8. The Morning Show Murders by Al Roker and Dick Lochte
9. The Little Book by Selden Edwards
10. Spirit Bound by Richelle Mead
11.  Winnie - the - Pooh by A. A. Milne

attempted murder at the rollar rink

Obstruction #2 - prompt:
Do strenuous athletic activity (your heartbeat is up) for at least 20 minutes. And then, without a break, as soon as you are done, wherever you are, take out a notebook and write a poem.

attempted murder at the roller rink

don't shove your body in
the direct path
of that child (!)
I can't move my feet
(where they go) (or control their speed)
but I can fruitlessly wiggle
my middle three toes
we will collide
as prophesied by the signs
posted (the rink is not liable for injury)
and here I am
(about to murder a child)
with my monolith body
3: 2: 1
watching my
f    e    e    t
p  l  u  m  m  e  t
u s e l e s s   f o r w a r d 
(now where is that crash (?) )
I look up, she looks
forward and we
(smiling mischief)
miss each other.

©2014 Lex Vex

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Ode to Deep South Paranormal

**This assignment was an "obstruction" where I worked with a non-writer to create a poem, line by line. We had to evenly cut out each other's words. What follows is the result**

Ode to Deep South Paranormal
By Lex and Bridget

Your beards wore long and the only spirits that
we saw inside your bodies.
Possessed you
made you scream, run,
beards will-o-whisp trailing,
bells (three times) ringing in your
ears. A haunting song: long fingers plucking at guitar tendons
You took off your clothes and challenged ghosts
juju staff thrust high in air.
Jars filled with the breath of frogs heaving in your pockets
breathing non words and eat-licking alligator tongues
You fried the unfriable, ate the unedible
men first and men second and still men who ran from every whisper.
I'm not sure you actually hunted ghosts.

©2014 Lex Vex and Bridget

The Daily Puppy