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Australian writer/electrician/musician/man-child

Poetry Prompt #27: Let it Flow

Photo by Marc Sendra Martorellon Unsplash

Read along with the music and let yourself be carried away …

Boy blows a bubble
and it grows
… four, five, six
before it can break away
from the plastic doo-woogie thing
the great glistening bubble
grows bigger than him
catching the mid-day sun
and paints a rainbow on its skin —
down windy winding roads
the bubble goes and goes
side-by-side with pedal traffic
it swells and swallows them whole —
thunder rumbles on the bridge
tram nineteen is a tring-tring-tringing
better watch out bubble-o-billy
don’t try nothing silly —
bubbles gives a little smile
and wobbles right on in
scoops up the commuters
to take them along with him —

Prose Poem Prompt: Major philosophy

Photo by Ehud Neuhaus on Unsplash

Burrowed down in a three-day hole. Covered in the dirt of self-destructive thoughts, stuck by the mud of Seneca’s critique, how was it before? I don’t remember enlightenment being this dark. So dark I can’t aim in the bowl, let hot piss pool upon the floor — what’s the point, after all, these tiles will forget me once I die, along with these rooms, and all their inhabitants and you’d all be liars if you said otherwise, even you, my dear, and I grind my jaw on the thought —

and pluck my teeth on the chord of D. But…

Prose poem

Photo by Bechir Kaddechon Unsplash

Just look at her… pristine powder-white coat, you can see the future in that spit-shine finish. Blue twenty-twos on her racing-grade shoes and that body; long. full. sweeping. stylised lines carved by the spatula of Michaelangelo himself —

It’s v-eight supercharged, strictly electric, a fully autonomous super intelligent, super self-conscious, supercomputer on wheels. You know the ones. She can reverse parallel park in five point four seconds, flat, and steer you clear of an awkward chat with the Mrs. in under two –

Playing Tom Petty — Runnin’ Down a Dream

I think Tom Petty was one of the greatest…

Monthly Prompt №3:June — Renga

Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

Your love is like snow
it always comes and goes
spreads silent on my mind —

on the people and their homes
on the tulip and the rose

Your love is like a bird
scarcely seen yet often heard
sings a song for morning —

a song for the sinking sun
a song for nothing and no one

Your love is like rain
it finds me once again
seeps through skin into bone —

through channels out to sea
through roots of an ailing tree

Your love is like poetry
it feels no need to hurry
savours the trickle of each syllable…


It’s Called The Barracuda

Photo by Taras Chernus on Unsplash

… so did my excavation project help with the irrigation, honey?
we should lay down a towel
not the pink one — that’s my mum's
she’s always so stressed
sometimes I feel more like
her dad than her son —
do you like what I’m doing with my thumb?
it’s called the barracuda
you can learn a thing or two from
seven hundred hours on Pornhub
next, we can try the machine gun
you're right it’s already kind of a mess
is it weird that blood doesn’t weird me out?
if I didn’t know better
I’d just say you were extra wet
by the way, have you cum yet? —
I feel like…

5:41 a.m. — Spanish Islands (winter dreams)

Author’s image

I wake to the sound of waves, crashing against a vacant beach. A procession of clear ripples roll towards the shore to kiss her salty feet, then recede to the back of the line only to come, again and again. I’m thankful for the curtains we left undrawn last night, allowing me to witness the eternal waltz of the ocean and the shore from the comfort of my bed.

The sky outside is a brilliant blue, I check the time, 6:30 a.m. I’m late, but I’m sure they’ve started without me. You stir a little, sighing and clapping your lips…

Poetry prompt: infatuation

Photo by Dainis Graverison Unsplash

I’ve had all the girls
a thumbnail at a time —
black girls, white girls,
red nails, blonde curls,
small girls, old girls
skinny girls, gay girls
tall girls, shaved girls
girls with white pearls
girls who needed help
girls from different worlds
girls who were guys
but are in fact girls
after all —
and of all these girls
only you — my sweet Destiny
only you — got a hold of me
these other girls
couldn’t hold a bright
burning dildo up to you
let alone a carrot or a candle
but here’s a candle
I’ve lit for you —
waxed it hasn’t waned
red hot naked flame
dancing in the dark

5:34 a.m. – Sleep

What happens to us while we sleep? It’s all incredibly vague, most of the time I wake up like an amnesia patient. Can’t remember a damn thing. One moment I’m laying there, blinking away sleepily at the street light coming in from the blind’s edge, listening to her snore. Then a marimba harpsichord starts blaring like sirens beside my ear, and I guess it’s a new day.

Some mornings a small fragment of a dream will hitch a ride on my back for a few hours. Usually it’s a passenger I’d rather not bring along, so I drop them off…

Prose Poetry Prompt: Capitulation

Photo by FLY:D on Unsplash

The first hit didn’t work. Frozen walls wanted to melt, the kitchen lights begged to accelerate, Jim Morrison did his best to convince me I was going, at any rate, somewhere. But it didn’t work.

Let’s try again, this time shut the doors — toasted mustard powder on a bed of red tobacco. Loose pillar of smoke glides down the throat, swirls at lung’s bottom and burns as lips grow numb. Lips or eyes, I can’t tell them apart — whatever brother — just keep them shut.

Doing my best impression of a corpse in a coffin. Far from dead…

Vic Spandrio

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