Alf's No-Alliteration Thread for NaPoWriMo 2013

Lecherousness
Not for the most youthful of minds

my brain had been told the rumor
that the lecherousness--
the worm that finds gusto on my skin,
feeding with fine, sun-like silverware--
can be fleshed out of light
when persuaded with thoughts
no picture can paint (and last more than this line)

but when i did with images and fantasies
repugnant to the eyes, lewd to the handy some
it grew and massed in number like a nest of
pestering bees,
buzzing by my time, humming by my peace
with their salacious whispers of the
"unwanted"

[hear them say the words
and the words
uttering the violence]

sometimes, though, i let my skin
be stung, be burnt, be indecently labeled raunchy
for the "unwanted"
be only what i lusted for long:
what i "wanted"

**This, my friends, is not an attempt to fail, rather, a form of creativity (and laziness) It's an Ottava Rima by the way**

An Issue of an Ultimatum About Safety from a Caveman

Papugga! Ugga tugga mugga hu!
Nugga gurug gruuuug. Hapuga nuga
duga grr grrr grunt guga gura pochiko
Nahugga! Babugga balugi *grunt*
Bahungga babungga! Grrr grr grunt grunt hachoo!
Nanuga li. Tatungga rawr rawr raaaaaaarw!
Gahoochi achoooo! Ha-ha-hachoo! Graaa!
Rarwl ruggi bungga grunt grunt grrrr! Papungga!

The Murder of Poetry

often do i find poems as dreaded as malfeasance
pure words fished from the mind, yet scorned from their essence
and blindly wedged into jejune verses, the brooks
and, in families of noir stanzas, clenched to books

those pulp and paper bound into one, i detest
for such tomfoolery and sad attempts they best
and so i started losing my flame for words in ink
as the sharp of the pen of poets dwindled in the brink

written poetry have always been the love of mine
for its goal is to define and defy design
but from time to time i come to think once again
that, unlike now, poetry was such a tree back then

Sack of Potatoes

My dear, you are the sack of rotten potatoes silently sitting underneath the hardwood floor of my kitchen, down in the deep, dark, dank basement, away from the intervention of light. Delicious you were in the form of freshness that you used to hold with your tight, soil-blanketed skin. But now, that the worms of despair and stressful disagreement on overpriced cable services have suckled on your purple sweetness, you have decayed in and out of your delicious flesh that my eyes cannot even comprehend the ugliness that the world witnesses from you now. How disgraceful, my love, that I still keep you all these years, how disgraceful.

Remember the times we argued about which MMA fighter is the best? Me, I don't. And I promise upon the grave of my ol' pal, the hamster, that I won't. I now deter myself from reminiscing the times we shared together, for every time I do, the image of you belly dancing after eating a Meat-Lover's burrito at Taco Bell just pops in without even knocking. Do not think, my dear, that I do not love you anymore. I do, usually in fact, if not sometimes. Think of us today as having a long-distance relationship. You're in the dumpster, and I'm in the living room enjoying popcorn while watching The Big Bang Theory. Easy, if I might say. This is not a form of hatred or--or disdain, rather, true disgust and abhorrence only a cup of coffee lacquered with fetid rat poison can explain.

Come now, my sack of rotten potatoes, sit beside me as I sing the song of our people. Do not worry, for no sharp nails of mortal risk lie upon the couch.

The Ants

Ants ran here and there
around my house, by my wall
munching on slices
of glum sleep I left to rot
for them to dream on their own

Silence

Oh
how
I
loathe
silence,
the
great
pause
of
reality
whose
only
goal
is
to
hollow
the
mind
of
things yet bidden,
bidden,
and to be bid.
Be gone!.
Rise
in pitch
and blow
away.

**I rather enjoyed writing this toyish poem. I label it as a distracted poem, one which holds no particular subject. Hm! All's well that ends well!**

The Wonder of Apples

Apples are tasty, juicy and red
very red, in fact, its hue might
as well be the tint of the blood
that runs on the lips of the vampires--
just had their dinners--
that fly about in the moonless night,
signaling the absence of any light
from the sun
which reflects on the moon,
the gargantuan chunk of stone
which circulates the gravitational field
of Earth, OUR Earth
the only living planet in the system of circles
held together with strings of gold and silver
by the sun.
the sun,
a puppet play that is
just like the toy mobile hanging above the ceiling,
above the child that slumbers into
dreams,
a child we need not disturb
with chatter
and apples.

Love Bites

The number of fingers on my left hand is five
and cats, bitter and beaten, will surely bite
but there's only five, so the spaces will survive
which I then reserve for your fingers on the right

A Question Not Implied

I used to be a realist, now I am a surrealist
I used to speak surrealism, now I write surrealism
I used to write surrealism, now I write imagination
I used to draw from imagination, now I devour imagination
I used to create with imagination, now I write poetry.

Powdery

Powders're potent,
arbitrary to command
singing to pretend
the rouge named life.
The moves so pristine
domino-like and luscious.
Powdery did they ascend
so lonely in soprano.
ignore the mystery,
enigmas to inculcate
diverse but straining,
limited, trained and fine.
Powdered splendor
to peasants singing
tenor, soprano and some mezzo
with guitars and tornadoes;
this a disaster to restart
a giant parade of sorts--
for borrowing papa.

What the Heartless Received for His Birthday

in a piece of vellum with moderate sleekness and shade,
shade of yellow, to be precise, are words printed with ink
ink of words and life addressed to me, just to me. words of farewells
farewells and good-byes, and things she will leave
leave to me, just to me, to prattle with, to think of.
of course, they are not mine to hold for eternity,
eternity that forever will last.

"To you my dear, first I leave this withered fan
for with it, may you blow away any unkindness
the nasty wind might bring to your way soon."

"To you my dear, second I leave this silver pendant
for with it, may you always remember the silver sheen
of my smile, and the light that shall always be your guide."

"To you my dear, third I leave this seed of Baby's Breath
for with it, may you propagate your garden with souls
of younglings we hesitated trying to supply with life."

"To you my dear, fourth I leave this rosary
for with it, may you count the blessings that gushes forth
through prayer, that the next or few might have now forgotten."

"To you my dear, fifth I leave my heart beating for you
for with it, may you never sleep again
without the ruddy air of me circulating in your mind."

and to my surprise, in the top of my voice
my voice that never have reached more than its range,
ranged a shriek that quarreled with the beating of the heart
the heart that beat forcefully with life
--life proven with dripping blood--
bloodily propped itself up
up and down it fell to my lap.

bloody,
and beating with life.

What I Can Still Remember

I remember when I was three years old.
I never cared about the world, then.

I remember the first house I moved in to,
I still live there now, though.

I remember the dried leaves lining the boulevard
which sped through my mother's hair.

I remember when my first goldfish died,
all because of feeding it soda crackers.

I remember my trip to the zoo.
It rained, and so we didn't get to meet some of the animals.

I remember the first poem I wrote in my notebook.
It was about the environment, everything's about it.

I remember the years I believed there's a monster under my bed,
after which I accepted the fact that my bed is only a mattress.

I remember the cemetery we used to go to
during the second (always the second) of November.

I remember childhood, and the things which I forgot.
Oh, what I'll do just to bring them back.

This is like, the most romantic thing I've written. Imagine the main poem being spoken by an old man, and the ones in the brackets the nurses and the doctors. Ah, love.

Old Times

I walked to the seashore [There he is!]
just to feel the unseen wind. [I found him!]
Not that it's any different
from any other wind.
It's just that the smell [Get the stretcher, quick!]
of scrubbed salt coalesced
with the proud breath of
the yawning sea
is something special to me.
It's a scent that let's me remember. [Has someone called a relative yet?]
Remember everything from [C'mon! This is an ambulance! The traffic-woman's being...]
the lazy beginning
to the end, still unfinished
set aside its title. [It's okay, sir! Everything's gonna be okay.]
I would never let myself forget [He has no more relatives.]
how it started. [Are you sure? Have you checked the records?]
I remembered
the first time I touched her hand,
smooth and pearly, soft as the sand
I'm resting my feet on.
Then there's our first kiss,
sweet as a profusion of strawberries,
sweet as honey-dipped plum. [Have you checked his vitals? We're still far.]
Oh, yes, we used to eat those [He's breathing's not good. He's whispering something.]
by that beach [His mouth; he's trying to say something!]
as we wait for the orange sunset
to burst into a thousand stars
and spread some light in the dark.
And there were fireflies, glowing bright green,
all neon-like. Hundreds and thousands of 'em
flitting around the landscape,
dotting the surroundings with hope [How's he doing? We're almost there.]
that the sun will soon rise again
from its nightly deathbed.
We would lay ourselves there,
hand-in-hand, without a blanket--unlike the others--
so that we'll feel the grains
that always tickle our skins with grinning delight.
I remembered the paper lanterns
which hung around the beach-house.
They're various colors glowing
mixing with the vibrancy of the view.
And then we'd let ourselves slumber
to cotton-candy-like dreams,
with only the flux of eccentric, rainbow lights
and the secure beam of the lighthouse
to guard us as we sailed down
the streams of tomorrow. [Doctor! Heart attack.]

Tonight, as the feel on my feet [Get the...stat!]
slowly fades away,
I will sleep upon the sand,
together with the rest of the living sea
and wait for the sun to rise again
for when it wakes me up once more
with its glaring smile,
sure am I, that I will sail down the streams of tomorrow
with you
again. [We've tried our best.]

Chocolate Bars

Come! Come! Buy me! Buy me!
Look at my sheen, brown like manure
and shiny like an unctuous face!
Here, take a free taste!
Am I not so yummy?
Contained in me are 30 special ingredients!
Two of which are things no person
should try eating!
So, come! And buy me!
Beware, though, for there is a contract!
Who knows what's in it!
Just sign!
and buy!
Me!

The Anatomy of a Life

Only the fetus
inside the womb can witness
what the world should be

The age is a game
where we’re supposed to count
until the game’s end

Death should not be feared
as it’s just the friend we parted
with when we’re born