Limerick(s) of the Week #54: Forsaking Limericks for Ballads — getting away from the AABBA
That limerick of the week I'm to write
Should not be so unique it's alright
That it comes later than
Every seven days can
Such that my readers up'n'left, downright
After a year I've fallen behind
Gone out of sight and out of mind
It's just that I'm so sick
Of writing the limerick
I hereby up and resign
Where did they all get me?
Awash in kinky debauchery?
Maybe on paper
But not with my neighbor
Off the record they all rejected me
Though for a year I've gone the distance
In weekly consistent persistence
Doing the jig
And rhyming each gig
I think I'll just free-verse, perchance
A sonnet a week, a haiku a day
The other paths I could as easily sway
With wordsmithing well played
More likely I'll get laid
'Cause a ballad makes powerful foreplay
Sure I'll miss double entendres
The innuendos and allusions to congress
But talking dirty
Just ain't as flirty
As assonance with my sexy accomplice
Size doesn't matter
Hyperbole makes organs no fatter
But slip in a spondee
Or a fricative, and you'll see
The poetry will make her wildcatter
Ghosted
Sweat glistens; she smiles down at me. Eyes locked, hips rocked, we fight the air-conditioning, wrestling in tangled linens. She laughs, I flip her, she's pinned. My breathing changes and eyes glaze; she smiles, nodding, tells me to, but I'm already there.
Whitewash rolls down, but we will never have a picket fence. Her lips part in matching smiles. The bruise on her thigh is a beautiful contrast to the cream of her skin and on her skin.
Adele says we've gotta let go of our ghosts. That’s truth, but these ghosts in my sheets are a haunt I welcome.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fk4BbF7B29w
Mess
My mind has a mind
Of its own
Unowned
By anyone
My principal
Principles
Disowned
By every one
My secrets
Biff the confines
Of my skull
To escape
My inward lust
Turns outward
To suck the life
Out of outliers
I am a can,
I am, of worms
Getting a headstart
On my burial
I'm unapologetic
For my angelic
Fall of Bad Angels
Into the abyss
How better is best?
How deeper is rage?
How best to be better?
How proud to be lost?
_________
Inspired (albeit tangentially) by @rlove327's "They call her fickle" (https://www.theprose.com/posts/spotlight)
One for the Kids
I was your age
When I decided
I’d had enough
I was tired
So, I turned off
The television
Ate a bottle of Valium
And waited
I was so tired
And when I woke up
I was in the ICU
With an endotracheal tube
Shoved down my throat
A Foley catheter
Inserted into my bladder
And an immense
Feeling of gratitude
That I had not
Been conscious
For any of it
And an even greater
Feeling of sadness
That I was still alive
And that my mother
Would have to explain
To her physician
Why she needed
An early refill
David Burdett
5/17/2024
Inconsistent
Write.
Typically on paper with a pen or a pencil, mark down the days passing of my youth. Letters words symbols that last a life time tell of my life time in moments.
Come with me to far away lands where we can be alone together but always near. Where fogy dreams and vivid memories become unwound a mess but clear.
Flea with me on a trip that only one’s mind eye can see, bathed in the wilderness and don't worry about the don’ts won’ts could haves and never has beens.
“Your heart is free have the courage to follow it“
Awaken to today‘s yesterdays tomorrow. Let me fill your head with images of what can but will never be where men touch angels and fire meet ice such, is such contradictory.
Tonight I enter the town of my rebirth.
I want to be ready.
Foursquare Nightmare
As a kid
I lived next door
To a Pentecostal
Foursquare church
My grandmother taught
Sunday school there
Which meant
I was required to attend
Maybe there is a God?
Because in between
The convulsing
On the floor
Speaking
In tongues
And rampant
Pedophilia
It’s a miracle
That I didn’t
Turn out
More fucked-up
Than I am
David Burdett
5/16/2024