TB Poetry

Poetry

a variation on a theme
(what 's my name?)

i wanna jazz you all night long.
listen to me mama;

play gillespie, muffle my trumpet,
and blow a sultry saharan swing
between those thick yella thighs.
now you be dizzy.

(what's my name?)

hitting you with my rhythm,
i am max roach all over
your big alabama booty.

making your bass drum say ba-boom when i kick it
and your snare say b-bip when i lick it;
your floor toms when i thump them be ba-bumpin'.

all the while your high hats are keeping time
tet-te-ta tet-te-ta to the tap of my love.

(what's my name?)

oh, the solo
my tongue sounds
from fortissimo all the way down
to the tip of your toes.

(what's my name?)

i be
you re-
we slow bop our hips in a circular motion.
i thrust my blacksong inside of you
make you sing sarah vaughn—

doo-we doo-we doo-we ooh mak

(what's my name?)

Nini of the Beautiful Thighs

Paris, Reine Blanche, 1880’s

by Andrea Bates

Arms and legs long as the sails of a windmill,
she orients to the prevailing gaze,
monocle-wearing messieurs, rowdy
gentlemen who leave their wives and come
for an hour to raise a glass to absinthe,
to sin, to song, to Nini’s strong stage presence:

an acrobat in lace drawers, somersaults
and cartwheels for the masses. Balancing
on her hands, she scissors the air,
her legs taut as Cupid’s arrows.

Many wanted to take her beyond applause,
tame love’s gymnast for forty francs,
anonymous in Pigalle’s back rooms,
tongues savoring the grooves
of her lattice work, undoing
the tatting with their teeth.

#femaleonabikeonthepathonherwaytonyc

by binary chic

U got on @ nwk or maybe u teleported in.
Hot pink shirt tomboy saucony shoes & days of attitude.
Bumpersticker read give me road at least 3 feet.
See u r stuck in my head like vinyl on perpetuous play.
Maybe u think ur str8.
I dont mind.
I did too,
at one time.

Then and Now

by Shannon Phillips

You used to get so drunk off my skin you'd
hiccup between moans and every time you
closed your eyes, shadows were thrown
on the backs of your lids as if goddesses
were performing rituals inside your skull.

But now, I permeate you, a slow
warmth pooling at the bottom of your belly as
would an aperitif: cognac or perhaps brandy.
From there, I travel your limbs,
You sip me for an hour.

How to Draw Thursday Night

by Marta Ferguson

Begin with the chair. Not yours
or his, but the one collapsed
between the table and the wall,
the one missing a leg. It's
where your eyes go when you can't
meet his, when there's a lull
in conversation or an acceleration,
a dilation, an opening of any kind.
He's got a coat thrown over it
when you arrive, the same coat
thrown over it the last time
you were here, weeks ago, just
to pick him up and go.
Sketch tonite more slowly.
Burr the surface of the table,
real wood, with grain lines and scars,
some odd paint daubs and gouges,
prove it lives here, under his elbows
and his fist, his other open hand,
the one you watch, but do not take,
though it would be so easy
to reach him from where you are, that second
chair, the one you won't see much
in this picture because it's where
you see yourself and you just
can't see yourself with him,
not yet. You have to see him first,
tipped forward in the last chair,
his chin on his fist on his elbow
as the table patiently bears
the weight of his attention,
his intentions, his other open hand,
now about to stifle the yawn
he won't want you to see because
he's sure it means you'll go and
when you're gone you'll be able
to erase all that you've just
so lightly penciled in.

Getting Newly Old: A Parallel Poem

 by Changming Yuan

you can only talk
about what you used to do
and do 
what you used to talk about

you shrink in both ways
and both ways are 
the only way
to shrink

what's supposed to be hard
softens like a boiled noodle
what's supposed to be tender
hardens like a winter stone

one attempt
on top of another

or, one attemptable night
after another

Poetry Archive

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Poetry is not a civilizer, rather the reverse, for great poetry appeals to the most primitive instincts.

Robinson Jeffers

Erotica, Exotica, and Essays

Poetry

a variation on a theme (what 's my name?)

Nini of the Beautiful Thighs

#femaleonabikeonthepathonherwaytonyc

Then and Now

How to Draw Thursday Night

Getting Newly Old: A Parallel Poem

Poetry Archive

a variation on a theme
(what 's my name?)