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Sign ups will be accepted until 11:59 p.m. CST on December 31, 2010 (the time in your part of the world), and the prompts will be given on January 1, 2011.

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Ha! First! Me!

lady_krysis

Edited 2010-10-01 15:29 (UTC)

Nature is full of teeth
that come in one by one, then
decay,
fall out.
In nature nothing is stable,
all is change, bears, dogs, peas, the willow,
all disappear.

Hi, my name is Jon, and I'd like to participate.

Don't look now, God, we're all right.
All the suicides are eating Black Bean Soup;
the Dalmatian, our turnip, our spotted parasite
snoozles in her chair.
The trees, that group of green girls wiggle at every window;
a sea bird, all nude and intimate, comes in low.
The house sinks in its fill, heavy with books;

Here goes nothing! I'm signed up.

It was a bad performance.
That's because I'm the only actor
and there are few humans whose lives
will make an interesting play.
Don't you agree?

Oh hai! *signs in*

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

Er? *tentatively adds name to list*

Instead a strange being leans over her
and lifts her chin firmly
and gazes at her with executioner's eyes.
Nine clocks spring open
and smash themselves against the sun.
The calendars of the world
burn if you touch them.

I'd like to sign up.

birgitriddle

I refuse to remember the dead.
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you -- you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.

This is me, signing up!

All day long the house sits
larger than Russia
gleaming like a cured hide in the sun.
All day long the machine waits: rooms,
stairs, carpets, furniture, people --
those people who stand at the open windows like objects
waiting to topple.

*takes a deep breath* Yeaaaaaaah okaysignmeup.

Blind with pain she limps home.
The thoroughbred has stood on her foot.
He rested there like a building.
He grew into her foot until they were one.
The marks of the horseshoe printed
into her flesh, the tips of her toes
ripped off like pieces of leather,
three toenails swirled like shells
and left to float in blood in her riding boot.

Very interested in your choice of poet. I'm in.

He returned to the princess
saying, I am but a traveling man
but here is what you hunger for.
The apple was as smooth as oilskin
and when she took a bite
it was as sweet and crisp as the moon.
Their tongues met over such a dish.
His tongue lay in her mouth
as delicately as the white snake.

allright, I'm in! :D

the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and then the quiet deed?

Interesting idea and the poet also sounds very interesting. Sign me up!

I have been divorcing him ever since
going into court with Mother as my witness
and both long dead or not
I am still divorcing him,
adding up the crimes
of how he came to me,
how he left me.

Sounds like an interesting idea! I'd like to sign up. :)

Only his head and neck can breathe.
He yodels.
He goes under yodeling
like the first mate
who sways all night in his hammock, calling
I have seen, I have seen.

Hello! ^^; Count me in!

Words waiting, angry, masculine,
with their fists in a knot.
Words right now, alive in the head,
heavy and pressing as in a crowd.
Pushing for headroom, elbowing,
knowing their rights.
And where is the order? You will ask.

i'd like to participate, mm! (:

I was always a virgin,
old and pitted.
Before the world was, I was.
I have been oranging and fat,
carrot colored, gaped at,
allowing my cracked o's to drop on the sea
near Venice and Mombasa.
Over Maine I have rested.

Signing up because I love

lunesque

I am filling the room
with the words from my pen.
Words leak out of it like a miscarriage.
I am zinging words out into the air
and they come back like squash balls.
Yet there is silence.
Always silence.
Like an enormous baby mouth.

(no subject)

pf_mod - 2011-01-25 22:55 (UTC) - Expand

Please sign me up!

Just like a jigsaw puzzle,
I will put Him together again
with the patience of a chess player.
How many pieces?
It feels like thousands,
God dressed up like a whore
in a slime of green algae.

(no subject)

rroselavy - 2011-01-01 18:23 (UTC) - Expand

Sign me up! Hoping it will keep me writing past NaNoWriMo this year. :P

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know
if it's bread or stone.

Okay, I am all over this!

ariestess

and then how she watches him,
still strong in the blowzy bag
of his usual sleep while
her young years bungle past
their same marriage bed
and she wishes him cripple, or poet,
or even lonely, or sometimes,
better, my lover, dead.

Signing up!

or noticed the neck of the driver
as he cheated the crosstown lights;
or later in the evening,
if I'd held my napkin over my mouth.
I think I could…
if I'd been different, or wise, or calm,
I think I could have charmed the table,

Signing up.

I unknit.
Words fly out of place
and I, long into the desert,
drink and drink
and bow my head to that meadow
the breast, the melon in it,
and then the intoxicating flower of it.
Our hands that stroke each other
the nipples like baby starfish --

Signing uuuuuup

and the woods were white and my night mind
saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal.
And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course
to look-this inward look that society scorns-
Still, I search these woods and find nothing worse
than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns.

Sign me up, this could be interesting!

My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.

kuwdora !

They are the tough
ones that get broken and reset. I just can't
answer for you, only for your bones,
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles,
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar.
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its
own life in its own skin.

Now this could be interesting - I'm up for it!

No zing and zap
or ounce of gentleness
and when anger comes
like a finger in a light socket,
you of the karate chop,
you of the Tommy Gun,
force me downwards like a stone.

signing up

The mechanics
of the body pump for their tricks.
I rest on their needles, am dosed
and snoring amid the orange flowers
and eyes of visitors. I wear,
like some senile woman, a scarlet
candy package ribbon in my hair.

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