Drunk Poetry II: Do not go gentle into that fine ass

Hello folks. It’s been a while since my last post. I spent this year doing a different sort of job, and it kept me more busy than I had anticipated it would. Entirely worth the time, mind you. I find myself left with a lot to think about.

I have not abandoned writing, while I’ve been quieter here. I have kept up poetry for myself and friends, and have submitted a short story for a Best Men’s Erotica anthology with Burning Book Press. But I haven’t been writing at the volume I did during and after National Poetry Month last year, and haven’t spent as much time polishing things up to share publicly.

I have two weeks vacation now, and figure I can use this time to break the silence. I wrote a villanelle this weekend to thank a friend for his gifts of booze, which I was sampling generously at the time of writing. It is based on the poem Do not go gentle into that good night, by Dylan Thomas. I would like to share it with you.


Do not go gentle into that fine ass

Do not go gentle into that fine ass,
Sphincters should burn and clench at close of night;
Thrust, thrust, against the amply mounded mass!

When one’s presented that rotund crevasse
Respond with shlicking rounds of phallic flight,
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.

That they might seem to be of higher class
Does not assure that they’d protest or fight,
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

The screaming’s no request to end it fast,
Toss them a pillow and tell them to bite;
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.

And when their voice begins to break and rasp
Take pleasure in those hymns of anal plight,
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

And they, catching their breath, will glare and gasp
Curse, bless you with fierce tears of pained delight–
Do not go gentle into that fine ass.
Thrust, thrust against the amply mounded mass!

Advertisements

Terminal Velocity

I lie back as Earth spins and falls
listlessly pinned against its crust;
We can’t seem to feel it at all.

Pooled on the floor’s my wine-stained shawl
We whet our mouths and barter trust
I lie back as Earth spins and falls

Voice husked in morning’s slurry drawl
You feed me poems coated in dust
We can’t seem to feel it at all

As midday hangs its firey awl
We trade our tersely tempered gusts
I lie back as Earth spins and falls

Winding starlight into taught balls
I leave the sky bruised black and mussed
We can’t seem to feel it at all

I wash and fold my wine-stained shawl
We trade no more words than we must
I lie back as Earth spins and falls
We can’t seem to feel it at all.

———————————–

First attempt at a villanelle. Tricky buggers these.

Take care,

Smithy