Lost and Found

Poetic Form: Found Poem Found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems. A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts: the words of the poem remain as they were found, with few additions or omissions. Decisions of form, such as where to break a line, are left to the poet.

 *So this is how it's gonna work (feel free to try this one on yourself sometime). I've done found poems quite a few times using magazines. The idea is to look through magazines, find words that strike your fancy, cut them out, and then arrange them on a sheet of paper. It comes out looking something like a ransom note, but it's usually pretty cool. I like the surprise element: not knowing really what I'm going to write about or where it's going until it's done. I often have no idea what the topic is going to be until I'm well into the arrangement phase. I don't have many magazines hanging around right now, so I'm going to use the current posts from my "voyeuristic tendencies" list. Let's see what you all have to offer me today! The added benefit here is I have an assignment - to catch up on my blog reading.  

Lost and Found

One Slut at a Time,
a slightly lower dose -
 fragile, needy intention
decidedly made things much worse.

The girl was certainly up for a gangbang.
The prettiest hoarder -
silver knees arched freely -
raw, coarse edges.

"You don't need permission, do you?"
The woman had his balls in a jar.

"My plan is to become more comfortable with anal."
They stumbled out of the bar, glistening.

"I'd like to fuck you."
Breathless with need, he parted her thighs.

"I don't know quite where this came from..."
He dug his fingers into the hollow of her hip bones,
sucked the fat coral bead of her earring into his mouth.

His third eye wept.

Drunk sex brought back memories,
impure arousal;
a sermon of sex parted our bodies in dissonance.

"Be careful of the lipstick. It could stain your leather."

"Fucking hell, man."
We make this shit up as it pleases us.

"Wait...kneel...down...all the way down...on all fours...bend over."
The language of hunger,
implies violence,
curling around
leashed deprivation --
calls clarity to mind.

Tender thighs offer a tempting space,
like some private ornament of sexual self indulgence.
My fingers drift;
in exhilaration,
I see her ass winking at me,
surrendering,
a glorious white light at the end of the tunnel.

My mind drifts to a place,
smells of euphoria,
time-faded, but relevant --
 pretty is nice,
but performance really matters.

Sexuality is not the drug.
I need to ease the ache.

"I wonder if you know I'm masturbating for you."

Delphine Riffard - Solitary Pleasure