adeline_cosine

Admittedly, this website is over and done, brought down by a bizarre barrage of "reports" of so-called violations by trolls and an administrative staff unable to cope. However, I am vaguely interested in how I could be slapped for a violation on a comment I never made. The comment is actually pretty funny, but I didn't make it.

My last post on this website asked for feedback on a quote from Chaucer, which was then sent to Violations and I never heard back from my appeal.

I really don't care, but how in the world would someone else's comment wind up being attributed to me? Specifically:

Question: Why are people so afraid of the Illuminati?

Deleted Answer: We will track you down. We will eliminate you. Avoid what does not concern you. Disregard the omens. You are safer in ignorance than you are in knowledge. You have been warned. You will not be warned again.

Violation Reason: Hate Speech & Violence

Gesundheit

These men, I fear,

who I hold dear,

are probably

frustrated.

They look at me

so longingly

and haven't been

castrated.

But why should we

chance intimacy

through sexual

relations?

When a good sneeze

gives sweet release

and similar

elation.

Quondam Catulus Que Futurus

(Once and Future Kitten)

He showed the semblance of a Caesar

Even as a little cat:

A noble, cunning warrior;

A willful autocrat.

He promised to fight battles

In which the fur would fly.

He expected to woo maidens

With a caterwauling cry.

He would create an empire

If left up to his tricks,

But then the would-be emperor

Discovered he'd been fixed.

Lost Words

I’ve lost my words;

I’ve lost my voice.

It’s really not

a conscious choice.

I’ve lost ideas;

I’ve lost critique.

I lose momentum

as we speak.

I’ve lost resolve

to pen and post

or correspond

with those I toast.

If I remain

distraught and mute

???

NOTE: I’m sure you can come up with a better closer than I did. After all, I’m wordless.

I'm pathetic in terms of quantity, distance, and accuracy. Are there any tips or tricks (other than practice)? I can't pretend I'm a pro athlete with such poor spitting skills.

I submitted this to a post by LC to determine the “B.S. Quotient” of poetry, a computer program most undoubtedly a joke. My original (personal) challenge was to write a poem using numerous obscure words in a fashion that did not require a glossary. This is not a poem, but people may be interested in the naked scribblings that could eventually have become a poem. What would you discard, what would you keep?

The Lost Maenad

You smiled at me mischievously as I curled upon the floor,

long curls caressing my bare shoulders and silken slip.

I writhed kittenish and squirmed se languidly

Little did I recognize your smiles were mirroring mine

Oh, how some myths do prudishly malign

the rambunctious maenad with sparkling eyes and lips that taste of wine

Swept curls across the floor

Wildness divine

rapture and euphoria

and even euphony

were blessed within a tongue that could not speak

Little did I know your cell phone could capture

The tingling swirling of my radiant rapture

Oh how Dionysus’s maidens have been so maligned

Oh, how the prudes reprove wildness divine

Our sparkling eyes and lips that taste like wine

Truly Hellenaiaid

Hellenic naiad

Hellencine

Fierce bulls would have knelt before me.

The fierce bulls fell

To the ground before me.

Fierce lions knelt before me

Furious bulls did not dare to gore me

But sank to the floor before me

And behave as I designed.

Such is the charm of the maenad

In silk I slither

Delighted in my silken slip

I shiver

It is not my fault you quiver

You should drape me in fawn skin and equinox

Reveling in my silken slip I slither

Across the tapestry and backed against the mortised beams

Like a zephyr breeze that makes you quiver

No searing Auster wind could make you shiver like my heat

You’d drown yourself in my liquids in both retreat and penetration

And in the stark searness of heat and celebration

Redefine the southern winds to wet and humid revelation

For such is my nature and intent

To tame the bull, and force the lion to relent.

My bassaris (my fox skin) – my brassiere)

I admit somewhere did lightly disappear did shortly disappear

And wrapped only in fawn skin

You did may glimpse

The coyish fiery nature of my elements.

I cannot help it if I leave a mark

Dancing independent

Fleet of foot and fawn clad like a fox

frenzy

I never tore a beast apart

I only ripped apart their hearts.

Strange lusty restless nights

Nimbi illuminate (backlight )

The cumuli – those fat white clouds

That float

Like flat bottomed boats

Across blue skies.

Libido nimbus backlight

And yet I knew this glorious video of me as love defined,

You would lose among the subtle ticks of technology and time.

All erased, as if you were inclined

Or helpless to escape the vagaries of fate

And the beauty and the wildness that was mine

Would be ruined by too many losses within too little time.

Would disappear in clouds of space and time

Oh, how legends and myths malign

Our sparkling eyes and lips that taste like wine

If he had worn knee pads

In his dalliance with maenads

he wouldn’t have suffered

severe carpet burns

from whirlings and twirlings and turns.

The maenad

led her comrade

down a path of wanton bliss

Not wearing a fox fur brasserie,

Much less a lacy brassiere

The fine nitid silk of her slip

Swaying hips

The flint in her Stygian eyes

And lips that tantalize

Little did I know your cell phone could capture

The tingling swirling of my radiant rapture

Oh, how the prudes reprove wildness divine

Oh how Dionysus’s maidens have been so maligned

Despite sparkling eyes and lips that taste like wine

The synopsis of the story is this:

Choose a favorite amongst the maenads

You’ll be in a fix, entangled with six

And will need more protection than knee pads.

The roller coaster of romance

Contains turns one cannot forget.

She cried, “You have ruined my life!”

He argued, “Not all of it yet.”

The Other Side of the Door

The little kitten

darted out the barely open door,

prancing to discover

the smells and sights of summer.

Before him reared

a scrofulous tom cat,

red abscesses revealing

raw skin like a vet text.

The tom was rubbing

his mangy head

against my legs

as I shuddered

with a repulsion

I hope Jesus never felt

when laying hands on lepers.

Food is not enough

for the poor guy.

He desperately needs

affection,

and I must give it.

The little kitten quivered,

arched a back and hissed in fear.

Life is not all sunshine

and the sweet smell of grass

on the other side of the door.

One has options. One is independent. One can make matches and travel narrow paths. But three … three is the heartache of separated bonds when teacher tells students to pair up … being shunted to the next car of the roller coaster … a path two-abreast: a culture based on twos. Being rejected, or forced to reject. Three easily becomes lonelier than one.

Source: Three kittens trying to fit into a shoebox that only holds two.

Chinese Confessions

What’s the world coming to

when a woman can’t order Chinese

without being rebuked?

Her strong accent

reminds me of spicy lo mein

and the crispness

of won tons and fried egg rolls.

“You order too much!” this stranger says.

“You need cook more! You no get man

if you no cook.”

Is this admonishment my mother

in Asian accents?

How does she know I live alone?

She doesn’t know I cook all day,

full time at the assisted-living home.

We are cooks,

not chefs,

but I secretly aspire to chefdom,

finding pleasure in those dishes I prepare

to delight the old folks.

They love my artichoke dip.

I secure my helmet and straddle my bike

to ride to the liquor store.

I’m getting in good shape

since they took away my license.

Chinese food will be delivered soon,

despite the protests

of the owner.

Refrigerated Passion

It was a love

Not meant to last

Consisting of passed photographs

And lovely written paragraphs

That were bound to please.

It was not meant to be.

For I was just a condiment

And you were a wedge of cheese.

Abandoned for Curtains

Those kittens who nestled

on my chest

have abandoned me

for the happiness

involved in curling up,

all three

within curtained tapestry.

What’s this on my bed?

A brownie or biscuit…

I simply won’t risk it.

But I’m convinced

that furthermore

these petite appetits

are not petit fours.

LC is Out and About

I can’t find LC anywhere.

(and she’s not wearing underwear).

I found her almost compromised

by a mangy tom with shifty eyes.

The tantrum I threw

was decidedly blue.

At least the firecat male

brought a gift of a dead bird

that she was accepting too sweetly,

I stormed, “Oh not, I won’t hear a word!

If he hasn’t a trust fund or hasn’t incurred

wealth from his stealth that doesn’t concur

with his charms at seducing beauties!”

LC is obviously out and about,

with no chaperone and nary a doubt

about the intentions of males.

Who then slink off,

licking their tails.

I Do Not Understand Beats

Beets, beets, beets.

They are pretty but not so sweet.

I’ve tasted some

Where I’ve succumbed

To delight and the bite

But why do the store-bought ones

Lack originality …

Please finish this awkward poem for me. Yes, I’m lazy, and I’m asking you to do my work. So I will issue it as a challenge.

Believe me, this is not a poem that will ever be submitted to a professional outlet.

Uh-Oh

She was assured by the nurse

That as long as she nursed

She could not become pregnant.

Not true.

Not true, I’m afraid

For Little Cats, too.

Insidious Designs

My cover’s blown:

I must confess,

I desire to see you

All undressed.

As long as I am more than two,

May I be Dallas Heaven, too?

I’ll mention that I’d like to claim

Sue and caz among my names.

Let’s not forget

How I can pen

Words by Nancy, Gene, and Buk:

The poems are just a ploy to f…

So many names I do enjoy,

I’m sorry that I just employ

Romantic words to gain your trust

To fool you when it’s just a bust.

Basic Math

I used to think of recipes:

seasonings and salt.

It’s easier to add than to subtract.

But now I think of life and limb

love and friends, colleagues and kin:

It’s easier to add than to subtract.

Little kitten Cinnamon died today.

It was my fault.

I didn't realize the havoc biting fleas could wreak.

Anemia. Parasites. The loss even

of breath.

Or was it the fault of too much medication

applied too quickly

like slaps of paint covering

artless graffiti.

The cause doesn't matter:

it was my fault.

It's spiteful to blame others

who do not believe in spending money

on cats.

Cats who might encompass the word;

all glory, all love, much sweeter

than the serpent's tongue of children.

I extorted money for vet costs

by reeling this liberal Democrat in,

by smiling, relating, within organizations

that she "didn't believe in wasting money

on illegal immigrants."

How those words opposed her opinion

]when applied to human beings.

She could not tolerate stray cats

anymore than the intolerant, the fearful,

those adamant against admiration

And there might be underlying

congenital disorders (herpes, leukemia

respiratory problems)

that change frisky to wet-rag

kittens immediately.

They die so fast

But who wanted them to live?

"You have five kittens

with uncertain futures.

Four or five? Who counts?"

Four more kittens.

Each could crash from

life and play

within a day.

Late Night Illusions

The jukebox has clicked through all the quarters in Tavern 24,

opening the silence as steel guitars fall still,

waiting for the quarters that will come

to drown the cadence of the minutes that march loudly here,

counting out the clink of billiards,

the clink of bottled beer. I drink wine

and dream of gallant princes who will come

(and wonder where they were when I was twenty). For

a white horse and a castle I'd leave Bill.

For a dollar and a ditty I'd stay here.

Outside neon chars the blackness; the shrill whine

of a mosquito shears the edges of the night: humid, still,

like steaming nights in Tennessee, when, in jeans and duckbill

hats, men sweated down through dogwoods, coming

from communion at the copper still,

joking and exultant. We drank whiskey and berry wine

while my dad recalled his strength; we'd hear

again how he started with the railroad in 1924.

"They gave us flats made of freight cars," he told Bill,

"Stuck where they was planted, sitting still --

done chasing engines -- between the tracks and Highway 24.

Those cars didn't know how settled they'd become.

They trembled when unshackled trains rolled past, when they heerd

them clicking wheels following the whistle's whine."

Dad got poetic drinking whiskey. He was proud of those steel

flats, better than a shack's dirt floors. I married Bill

and moved on to linoleum, thinking how we'd come

up in the world. I dreamed of chandeliers and wine-

red drapes, but children came like clockwork; I couldn't hear

wind-chimes for whining. I moved my dreams to Tavern 24.

Smoke is mixed with chalk dust, I taste it in my wine,

listening for footsteps that don't come.

The hanging clock turns slowly, hands stopped still

on each face at twenty after four.

Neon fades in darkness, and sitting home is Bill.

I need to pack my expectations and be leaving here.

The bill comes to thirty dollars, and I have twenty-four.

I hear the whine of trains and children still.