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My restless pace
satiated with sorrow and jealousy
brought me back yesterday to the foggy bloody darkness
where I _______ you the first time
Here your perfume still six years on hangs
in the air
with its desperate mix of blind desire and genuine insanity
For every second passing one year after the other
I float more deeply into the night
as god folds napoleons hats of my suicide letters
My dreams of us are like vicious children long ago cowed out under the stairs
Here they have become one with the dimness
but like perverted sparks they hiss of the heart
as it is slung across the floor
frantic with alcohol
by the sourly stinking cleaning bitch
of the meager mind

This sure is intensely evocative, Peter. I like it.

I see you miss out words and muddling other words so I do anything for a pretty boy and here is a betterer one of your poem. I call it Ten. Hope you like.


My restless penis
satiated with sorrel and the Caspian Sea
brought me back yesterday to the floggy broody Loch Ness
where I played tennis with you the first time
Here your skirt still six years on hangers
in the airing cupboard
with its disparate mix of bland design and genuine cotton
For every second coming
one Messiah after the other
I fuck more deeply into the Knight
as the cleaning lady folds hats
I eat my serious salad on the side- lettuce
My dreams of us are like bovine children,
long ago cows
under the stars
Here they have become one for the dinner?
but like diverted spunk or piss on the hearth
as it slides across the floor,
frantic as al Copone,
and his hourly stinking cleaning bleach
of the cheese rind

peter danielsen wrote:My restless pace
satiated with sorrow and jealousy
brought me back yesterday to the foggy bloody darkness
where I _______ you the first time
Here your perfume still six years on hangs
in the air
with its desperate mix of blind desire and genuine insanity
For every second passing one year after the other
I float more deeply into the night
as god folds napoleons hats of my suicide letters
My dreams of us are like vicious children long ago cowed out under the stairs
Here they have become one with the dimness
but like perverted sparks they hiss of the heart
as it is slung across the floor
frantic with alcohol
by the sourly stinking cleaning bitch
of the meager mind

fishfishquaileye wrote: My restless penis
satiated with sorrel and the Caspian Sea
brought me back yesterday to the floggy broody Loch Ness
where I played tennis with you the first time
Here your skirt still six years on hangers
in the airing cupboard
with its disparate mix of bland design and genuine cotton
For every second coming
one Messiah after the other
I fuck more deeply into the Knight
as the cleaning lady folds hats
I eat my serious salad on the side- lettuce
My dreams of us are like bovine children,
long ago cows
under the stars
Here they have become one for the dinner?
but like diverted spunk or piss on the hearth
as it slides across the floor,
frantic as al Copone,
and his hourly stinking cleaning bleach
of the cheese rind

[I thought I'd just place these so one could more easily compare]

.. now, I need to consider this more, fish, but you've done some wonderful things here. Jumping out at me, of course, is your changing Peter's line:

"as god folds napoleons hats of my suicide letters"

to your:

"as the cleaning lady folds hats"

.. you know, you may not realize this, fish, but there are many many examples of other poets and/or editors contributing to the "perceived" greatness of writers who we all assume to have mounted those highest of literary peaks themselves.. but no: in truth, The Wasteland would be, well, "garbage".. [let's face it].. without--actually, I'm blanking on the writer's name, now.. but, that aside.. it would be sheer trash, I assure you, without his giving such masterwork the "once over," as it were. Even Nabokov is said to owe far more to his wife than just her considerable laundering skills. And not to forget.. [I'm actually so tired right now, I can barely remember a single name--barely my own, even].. but not to forget--you know, the famous, short story writer, whose editor took what would surely have been just some run-of-the-mill nonsense--soon to have been lost to that cavernous category of ho-hum lackluster "litrature" [as it were], and turned it into the spare and powerful prose we now all recognize this writer for [if only we could remember his name]. [NOTE TO READER: in the realm of cutting edge chick lit crit, one can't have everything. You at least get the gist here, in other words] [once I've had some proper rest, I'll fill in the rest] [if I remember to, that is]

.. ANYWAY.. the point is, fish.. I believe, given the caliber work you've just demonstrated here, and which will surely turn our beloved Peter Danielsen into a household, uh,

[actually, as happens to me sometimes, I have no idea how to end that thought]

Later, fish.

your beloved
Dr. Violet D. Flowers XXIII

I like both but in different ways.