WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

to kiss
as if there was another word
tongues searching for that other word

words, ways
to describe this -
tongues, far from foreign
foraging for exquisite illustration
illustrious forays

to kiss
such that outside eyes
are out of operation
for longer than it takes
to have a deep bath
or lunch with a friend

third eyes press like
the pad of sated panthers,
moving this way and that
at the sway of soft brows

to kiss
not foreplay
the be-all meeting of mouths,
of faces, of hidden eyes
admission to hidden selves

the selves we surrender only
when communion is brought
in acts of consummation

yet with lips, only lips
end-all lips

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Do you mock me?

Catching glimpses, surely
corners of eyes don’t deceive?

Démodé clothes, bag-lady gladrags;
fraught tapestry, taut, loose-lipped
and unschooled, festoon the frame
like dilapidated weavings, as if

stigma is worn with
charityshop-hopping fag hags.

High Street thread-lust and your
cost-hunt for the sartorially explicit
narrows eyes -

you may mock, but

those fitting-room mirrors
slander an upwardly-mobile
derelict ethic on the polluted,
cobble-and-concrete wind.

✩

Charity-shops = Goodwill Stores, or Op-Shops (depending on where you are). High Street (clothes) shops = fairly affordable, trendy, often frequented by those who would rather be buying High Fashion gear, and are in the process of social mountaineering. Wouldn’t be caught dead in a Charity Shop. I moved in circles where Charity Shopping was thought of as fun and a great idea. I wrote this over twelve years ago, second year University, where we would shop those, and the rich Conservative kids would hit the High Street. It was that kind of College.

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“Oh, shut yer fuckin’ trap, ya dozy twat”, I spat at her,
(wasn’t thinking clearly on the repercussions rising);
all Friday night was swigging, escapades a purblind blur,
red up in my shit, confronted head-on, scally sizin’.

And later it was skinheads blaggin’ money for some booze:
guys, and twice my size, a butcher’s sussed no way to beat ‘em.
So choosing wimpin’ out and running – had a lot to lose -

musing on my chimp-like cunning (no way to defeat ‘em).
In Little Italy, some skulking smackheads had a ruse;
Bar Italia the place to dodge the faceoff meet-’em -

but stung by bouncers for it anyway, they barrelled me.
Doormen, neo-Nazis, chavs and cheeky fuckin’ junkies -

Stop. paused. to ponder if my eyes locked-on judgementally?
Naaah, I jus’ hate people – troubled knuckle-dragging monkeys.

(Stress Matrix Sonnet No. 4)

Based on a night out I had in Central London aged 20 (1997). I don’t remember being this mean though. I tend to dramatise. The neo-Nazis I met on another occasion – Calais Ferry Port, France, at 4am while hitch-hiking about seven months later. I just pretended I didn’t understand what they were saying when they asked me for money and if I liked Hitler.

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.

Slim-hipped,
him, slipped;
stepping stones, negotiable

Soft-lipped,
cloth, ripped -
stile pilfers thread and fabric

Fine-tipped,
shrine, sipped -
kneeling as knot is knit

and chalice, lip-to-lip

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✩

Sonnet in blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter).

This piece refers to an integral aspect of most interpretations of Hexagram 62 of the I Ching, the ancient Chinese divination/fortune-telling system.

Hexagram 62

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And God created Jobs

(The Lord giveth,
the Lord taketh away).

Windows broken, adamant Steve
threw the Apple.

And He saw that it was good.
Really fucking good.

(RIP S.J. Feb 24, 1955 – Oct 5, 2011)

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Soya suckers
tofu tuckers
take yer curds
out my whey

yogurt truckers
fasmati buckers
organic turds
soil my clay

Goa-packers
free-love jackers
floorfeet lackers
scratch my board

compost sackers
tantric frackers
Osho yakkers
yank my cord

need a damn re-tox retreat
crack the keg n’ pass the meat

Namaste.

✩

(I jest, of course. I love you all. Well, most of you :)

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