Thursday, February 28, 2013

LoPoWriMo #28

Volcanic Taco

I’d like to write a love poem to this cute girl who manages a Taco Bell in Salem, but I can’t write love poems to save my life. Plus I wouldn’t know where to begin scribbling something that might melt her into a puddle of goo on the floor. Ess, my ex wanted that, but I couldn’t write a love poem even if I were in a sinking ship and love poems were the only way to keep it afloat. XXX poems, that’s a different story. Those narratives access my inner fourteen year old and are much more fun to write. I suspect that in order to pen good love poems one first must be in love. I haven't been in love since I was twenty-six years old and I will be forty five in March. Yes, I have had several crushes along the way, but no deep enduring love.

Let’s go back to the taco bell girl sitting at a table doing her paperwork. Never did a lady in a black uniform look as good as she did arranging sales receipts in an unspecified order. The flavor of the tomatoes doesn’t even compare in sweetness as did a tuft of golden hair escaping from under her cap. And the sour cream was not as creamy white as was her cheeks juxtaposed against all that black. And the hot sauce was not nearly as spicy as her bark when she yelled at a pion screwing up on the cash register.

No, as you can read, volcanoes of words do not flow out of my peen to greet this young woman where she is at in the world. I have failed to compare this girl to the food she sells. And the boat I am traveling in has sunk that much more. But I do know this, the girl under the cap and clothes is a train wreck waiting to happen,

just as we all are,

because none of us are perfect in the land of the breathing.

Someday, someone else will write a poem to this girl that will turn her insides into lava that will floor across the earth to greet that one she loves to form an ocean of sensation.

Me, I’ve already found the love of my life. I splay out words on the page to her and it is possible that she doesn’t know that I am in love with her and all her verbs, nouns, adjectives, adverbs, punctuation, and other parts of speech.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

LoPoWriMo #27

Where The Condors Fly

Lenny was an adventuring spirit
a born fool

Across the strange dream grass
on the flatland of baldore
milk-eyes gored through him
The dream woman-girl approached
but said nothing
He hurried into a frenzy
They ran past each other
She was impulsive
"Your doom is near"
he recalled the warning
by his tribe's medicine man
He saw her suddenly smiling at him
above the white peaks of gladeer
sadness flooded into his eye
She had caught a wave in the sky and was gone

starved for attention
he ran away

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

LoPoWriMo #26

Masculinity in America is a Health Crisis

I was worried people would find this vid of me
I ate an entire can of beets last night
How does one prove they are straight

Did you see the museum of my hair
I don't always run around the house naked
I was worried people would find this vid of me

Someone is always watching when your pants are down
I went number two, the bowl was a beautiful deep pink
How does one prove they are straight

I've never seen a face like that
you can feel a breeze and hear a sound
I was worried people would find this vid of me

I'm a bit suprized this bothered you
I don't know if it was on purpose or not
How does one prove they are straight

I have noticed that I poo, pee, and dream by myself
Life sometimes gets in the way
I was worried people would find this vid of me
How does one prove they are straight

This experimental Villanelle is a line weave. Some of the lines were taken from facebook posts and comments other lines were taken from a video I was watching called "The Problem of Heterosexuality in a Homophobic Society."

Monday, February 25, 2013

LoPoWriMo #25

Happy Anniversary Young Lovers

We have more options
at XXX arcade

Wet and dry
slow or fast
single or double

Don’t fret
take your pick
There is a toy for you

The right one could be
as boring as a roll of duct tape
or as exciting as a flogger
cock lock and a gas mask

Ignite a new kinky spark

buy a blindfold
a silver bullet
a stretchy cock ring
or warm up to a first butt plug
start small
get huge
Work your way up

to the savage fucksaw

Source: The Stranger. Vol 22, No 20. January 16-22, 2013. Page 55.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

LoPoWriMo #24 (The Game Is On)

The Game Is On

“Let’s play doctor,” Jorgay said on the phone.

“I am at work,” Mary said.

“I got a friend who wants to play too,” Jorgay whispered.

Jorgay wanted an adventure. He was eager for it. He was tired of the same old thing week in week out. Mary had been talking between the sheets about licking another woman’s clam since they started dating when they were seniors. Jorgay was hesitant about sharing his woman with anyone, but in the last few years cracks were starting to form around his moral resolve. He had been fantasying about a coworker at school. She was fresh out of college and she still had a girly body. That was something he missed about Mary. Her girly body had been replaced with a mother’s body that had given birth to ten children.

“Did you ask the school supervisor,” Mary inquired?

“Yes,” Jorgay said!

Mary struggled to say no, but a wetness began to grow between her legs till she felt a squishy sensation. She had felt this once before. She never told Jorgay that her first sexual encounter was with a volleyball teammate when she was a junior. Their affair was brief, but intense. Juliet couldn’t deal with the thought of being a lesbian or even a bi-sexual. Jorgay’s supervisor reminded her of Juliet.

“You’d better bring those pills Jorgay. I’ll be the scissors.”

Saturday, February 23, 2013

LoPoWriMo #23

Hump On This

My thighs are as big around as tractor tires.
My waist is even larger.
I got curves you wouldn’t believe existed on Jupiter.
It would take a lifetime to explore all the folds in my flesh.

But you got to be a big boy to please me.
I want a man with a foot long slab of meat.
I want a man who knows how to use it as well.
Who can control when he comes.
And when he comes I want him to come a lot.
I want to feel his white hot fury
blasting onto the shield of my cervix.
It would be great if you were a multiple shooter too.

You don’t have to worry about me getting pregnant
because I can’t conceive; I was born 47 chromosome XXX.
That’s an extra X for you to work into my kink.
Come on over, big boy, and hump my arm.

I wonder where or how I come up with this shit? I know cruising through cl sex ads has something to do with it. I can always find one that is particularly funny, especially in the Miscellaneous Love section.

Hopefully, one day I'll write that seminal body of body of poems that will brand me like a Bukowski. Maybe that's too much to hope for. Maybe I should set my sights a little lower. I don't know. But in the mean time. I sit back and marvel when I look at this crap and just ponder, where did it come from?

However, what I do know is this: engaging in these writing challenges are illuminating. The more you write, the more you can write. It doesn't mean that what you write is any good nor is that important. What is important is that the more you write the better your bottom line average gets. Does that make any sense?

Friday, February 22, 2013

LoPoWriMo #22

Love is a Plot

It is a plan within a plan to maneuver something away from someone else who wouldn't, under normal circumstances, give it to them even if they asked nicely.

Politicians can't tell the truth as to why a nation needs to go to war. And if they did, the people wouldn't go for it. They would rise up against their leaders and string them up into trees on ropes for their crimes against creation. So, to get one nation to rise up against another they need a pleasent sounding ruse.

Many individuals express their marital love with back handed compliments on a battlefield. They slap each other silly till they knock off all the points and rough edges that stand between themselves and total union (which in some instances could be interpreted as total annihilation).

In the theater of war, "I want to kill you," is the same as saying, "can I slip my manhood into your vajayjay?"

And when your partner dies from that bullet you shot into her from your assault rifle, she will say, in her dying breath, "your seed has filled me and now we have conceived a child from this love!"

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

When Tonight Arrives

When tonight arrives,
yet another whiskey-soaked, hazy search for absolution commences,
in nameless seedy dives,
where loneliness offers solace,
and self-pity thrives.

Staring at the bottle,
knowing it offers relief,
from the numbing pangs of grief,
while stripping down the edifices,
of trust and belief.

When tonight arrives,
with a million hearts exploding,
casting away loss,
and the comforting sense of foreboding,
I wait my turn at the guillotine,
bereft of peace,
moulting my skin,
as it strips away my clothing.

When tonight arrives,
without ceremony,
all innocence is lost,
my soul bearing the cost,
of tomorrow's pain,
cocooning my heart,
in a shroud of silence,
beneath mountains of frost.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

Thursday, February 21, 2013

LoPoWriMo #21

Phone Frack Me

I am a submissive sissy bitch
I want to get you off
Email me your number
I'll give you a ring-a-ling-a-dong

I want to get you off
I can make you feel like a real man
I'll give you a ring-a-ling-a-dong
I want to be cuddled and kissed

I can make you feel like a real man
I am a sweet pretty litle girl
I want to be cuddled and kissed
at your place or in your car

I am a sweet pretty litle girl
Email me your number
I want to be cuddled and kissed
I am a submissive sissy bitch

This pantoum is a line weave. Some of the fragments were modified to fit this narrative. Source: Portland Craigslist Causual encounters February 20 - 21, 2013.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

LoPoWriMo #20

Grandma Iron

lived in a cave
at night
she dreamed of circles
she stayed young
taking care of orphaned children
she taught them
about the hunter in the sky
and the serpent who figured out
how to dip water
out of the ground
she instructed them the finer details
of roasting deer meat and
frying skillet bread
when winter snows
howled like wolves
in the wind

I glanced through a story backwards, without reading any of it, wrote down a few brief words and phrases and then constructed a brief narrative around them.

Source: McLain, Gary. The Indian Way: Learing to Communicate with Mother Earth. (John Muir Publications, Santa Fe, New Mexico, 1990), Page 5-6.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

LoPoWriMo #19

A Good Catholic Girl

Jamie’s face was round
and her lips were plump
All the guys liked the way her
mouth hugged their manhood

Jamie’s green plaid
Catholic school girl uniform
accented all her curves
in all the right places

At least that was his
fantasy for the past
thirty years

Monday, February 18, 2013

LoPoWriMo #18

Dear Mary

It began as a burning
ball of bile
in my stomach

after much screwing
it ended with an
ache in my ribs
from convulsive
dry heaves

This is my finger Mary
it is an ode
of my love
for you


Sunday, February 17, 2013

LoPoWriMo #17

A Love Poem

At last,
Jorge was finally
able to define


Love was
the smell of
chunky blood
and green diarrhea
across the floor
and bathroom wall

Saturday, February 16, 2013

LoPoWriMo #16

But Love Can Be Imaginative

walked bowlegged.
His anus
when he

had a
dirty mind.

Friday, February 15, 2013

LoPoWriMo #15


The snug
shaper felt like
a paddling

Xi's teepee
her leaking heart

Hmmmm....I wonder if it would read better if the stanza's were paddled on the other side?

Xi's teepee
her leaking heart

Her snug
shaper felt like
a paddling

The poem is crafted into the form of a Septolet. All the words, save for two, came from a scrabble game I played yesterday on my Kindle Paperwhite

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

The Taliban Within**


The praying never ends.

Beseeching words mouthed in countless tongues,
implore the gods.

Praying for this,
praying for that,

The praying never ends.

They tell me its religion,

They tell me I need to believe.

They tell me that they pray for me.

Their praying never ends.

Across all creeds,
beyond all faiths,

the praying never ends.


I tell them to pray,
pray, please pray,

for me,
and for us all,

that the Taliban within,
the Taliban that resides deep in every soul,

be expunged.

I tell them to pray,
pray, please pray,

for me,
and for us all.

Pray, please pray,
that I excise the Taliban within.

Pray, please pray,
for tolerance,

Pray for me,
please pray,

that I expel the Taliban within.

Pray for me,
please pray,

that my self-righteous piety may,

be transformed,

so that I may awake,
from this slumber,

and greet tolerance,

so pray, please pray,

that my eyes may open,
to the joyous birth,

of a new day.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

**many thanks to an old comrade and dear friend for the title of the poem.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

LoPoWriMo #13

It would be impossible to describe, in under 20,000 words, how much I don’t love you anymore.

The last time we were together was like the first time I went fishing for compliments at a sewage treatment plant.

Your breath stank worse than a plastic door to a latrine in a gold mining town. It was like inserting something into something that should never have had something inserted into it. A dead horse beached on the extra bed for two weeks would have smelled better.

As I walked home that night, I saw your cat laying alongside the road. His legs were frozen mid-stride in a run. It was difficult to tell what was tongue and what was brain’s squished out of his mouth. I remember thinking; “my thoughts must have killed it.”

I felt bad for your cat too, but I don’t feel bad for you. Not anymore anyway. The thing I never understood was why your sister was murdered and what the issue was with the families of the other two victims who woke up in bed wearing the same old clothes.

And when I am phasing in and out of cyberspace, I hope you can hear me softly say, “Save the whales.” I hope you listen too, maybe even smile for a change, and walk past that moldy can spam on the sidewalk instead of picking it up and eating it. Well, you are what you eat though. I just wish you could have moved your feet in a slightly different direction instead sinking in that pit of tar.

Whatever you (don’t) do, it shouldn’t come as a surprise when the next person—you fuck over—leaves you too.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

LoPoWriMo #12

"Bingo" was the name
named all our dogs.
God dam her! I wanted to name a poodle
Ingrid would
not hear of it.
Gabby, her ex, said she was always infuriatingly

Monday, February 11, 2013

LoPoWriMo #11


related to my balding head.
Every morning she ate
canned spam,
yams, and
cream of wheat. The
laundry machine
ejected my
dirty clothes on the floor, but her's stayed clean.

years passed before she would

listen to stories on
objective reality. Sandy never
vocalized her love to me in the

Sunday, February 10, 2013

LoPoWriMo #10

Muriel sought love
in the dregs of a wine glass.
He was a beater.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

LoPoWriMo #9

Love was

    The total dark time
    The microphone taped to the skin overlying the trachea
    A pregelled chest electrode
    A measurement of endoesophageal pressure

       ---At 4:00 AM thinking of you

Love was

    The R-R interval of the electrocardiogram of a Holter monitor during sleep
    Data collection for routine awakening procedures
    A conditions associated with sleep apnea syndromes
    The laboratory of human chronophsiology

       ---At 4:00 AM thinking of you

Love was

    An estimation of the core body temperature
    An Ambulatory recording of PMS
    The subjective DIMS complaint without objective findings
    A recording protocol method II

       ---At 4:00 AM thinking of you

Love was

    The clinical symptoms of predominant centralized sleep apnea syndrome
    A nocturnal sleep parameter measured against total spontaneous arousals
    The significant effect of days on nocturnal sleep
    A sleeping and waking disorder

       ---At 4:00 AM thinking of you

Juxtaposed headings and phrases poem

Source: Guilleminault. Sleeping and Waking Disorders: Indications and Techniques. (Addison-Wesley Publishing Company, Menlo Park, California, 1982)

Friday, February 8, 2013

LoPoWriMo #8

Sexting Oedipus on Craigslist

I'll be your female---
your girlfriend
your biological creator
or whoever you want me to be
---in a story rewriting our universe


Use your fingers
in me
to form words
to show me
you plan
to seduce me


into a string of knots
across the page

I want to play with you


any way you want

Jack me
Jam me
Poke me

I got a little hole for you to ravish---
it's puckered up doughnut-hole tight
---as long as I can use your member
at the crucial moment
in time

because timing is everything
in this game


on your phone
when you are at your desk
or at the dinner table
with your wife
or your insignificant other

be my e-male
in an email


on the Internet


This narrative is loosely based upon a Craigslist Casual Encounter personal ad.

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

A Better Way

Assaulted on all sides,
by the promise of faux-bliss,
etched on designer labels.

Dutifully acquiescing,
as we gleefully get herded,
into styrofoam stables.

Humanity traded at bargain prices,
carefully julienned into bite-sized slices.

There has to be another way,
where dreams and truths aren't brittle as clay.

I have to believe in that less harsh, more just way,
where wanton greed is kept at bay.

I do believe in that better way,
when people see people again.

I do believe in the promise of that day,

when hunger and despair,
when anguish and pain,
when injustice and tyranny,

is finally,

and at long last,

swept away.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

Thursday, February 7, 2013

LoPoWriMo #7

Longer Hours, 40% Off


Hook up

Hook up
Lie naked

Lay naked

How to love

How to love
Play bare
Rear entry

Play bare
Lovers lair
Rear entry
Now hiring

Lovers lair
Now hiring

Ad tag line pantoum. Source: the Stranger, (Volume 22, Number 22; Jan 30 - Feb 5, 2013), Page 69-72.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

LoPoWriMo #6

I'm tired of
disinterested women.
I ceased seeking them.

When pressed for time, in any poetry writing challenge, you can't go wrong with opening the dictionary to any random page picking out the first word your eye lands upon and composing a haiku. In this case the word was disinterested. Day six is concluded.

If you are just seeing this, it is not too late to join in on the fun. The LoPoWriMo (or Love Poem Write Month) challenge is a new poetry writing challenge whereby one composes one poem a day for 28 days centered around the general theme of love. What you could do, if you can't commit yourself to 28 poems is write 14 instead.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

LoPoWriMo #5


The amount of money involved
is obscenely large

Technology is abusive.
Humans need moral compromise
to construct more violent technology.

People before the Bronze Age
held unspoken guidelines against
taking metals from mother earth.
Taboo kept us close to her breast.

This computer,
is made by peoples who are
violently oppressed
by the very regimes regarded favorably by
the United States government.

Am I any less than that of a
sex predator—
or John Lennon
posthumously endorsing
the enterprise
that made this technology
—in using this machine?

I rationalize the horror away.

Where should I get new glasses?

An underlined arrangement of phrases & ideas.
Source: City Arts, Seattle, April 2011, Page 22.

Monday, February 4, 2013

LoPoWriMo #4


Orange and
Open plates to the sky

Willowy poles
Orient east in adoration

Sunday, February 3, 2013

LoPoWriMo #3

More often than not


Over react
Malice and

United with
Kills love

Saturday, February 2, 2013

LoPoWriMo #2

How Do You Like It?

Buy tickets now---
Relationship Skills class
anonymous entry
Love Games
---join us today

This valentine's day---
fuck first
savage love
arcade and peep show
gloryhole booth
bondage demo
for people with low incomes

Silly sisters
using a lottery system
ready for a change
hook up tonight
dancing bare
release muscle pain
---spend the night alone

Advertizement Tag Line Poem

Source: The Stranger, Volume 22, Number 21, January 23-29, 2013, Pages 62 - 68.

Friday, February 1, 2013

LoPoWriMo #1

The girl with the red hair

made my head throb

I'd seen her on my way to the canteen
She would call out
"There are more fish in the sea"

I got a letter
We had met at camp
she wanted to know
if we could get together

I envisioned her
as a ravishing brown haired beauty
I promptly wrote back
I promised to visit her

I'll never forget how
her hand fit into mine
I asked the girl to marry me
she said, "yes."

The girl with the red hair
is now a grandmother
she still makes my heart pound

W.J. Lindberg, Crossout Poem

Source: Reminisce, August/September 2012 Issue, Page 39.

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

The Burning of Manuscripts


The hubris of religious bigotry,

is chilling,

as ancient manuscripts are torched,

burnt to cinders.


The searing furnace of fanaticism,
rages on and on,

history itself vanishes,

amidst the smouldering embers.


The arrogance of prejudice,

in all its countless incarnations,

runs amok,
ablaze with self-righteous conceit,

as the smoke billows,

smearing a greying sky,
with the ashes of history,

above a library in Timbuktu.

Copyright © 2013 by Afzal Moolla

This rant is written in responce to a recent terrorist attack by Islamist rebels in Mali where they burned a library to the ground that contained many ancient scrolls and manuscripts.