Exquisite Corpse

I have been participating in an Exquisite Corpse online for the past several months. We have all contributed to the following poems, they have become something worth sharing.

The premise:

"Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau."
"The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine."

This activity is named after the above sentence, a product of a parlour game invented in 1925 by Surrealists. The Surrealists sought to find deeper truths through the subconscious. They used games such as this to do so.

Here's how it works:

1. Sign up for the project under "Sign Up" in the discussion board.
2. I will write two lines of poetry, of which I will send (via facebook messaging) the second line to one person.
3. When you receive the line, send me two lines to succeed it. I will send the second of those lines to the next participant.
4. This process will be repeated till all who signed up have participated.
5. I will publish that week's poem in this group.

...

The poems:

1

Equine tales and oatstraw bales
golden as the Urcaguary's chains.
Compelling as Mnemosyne's appeal to pathos
Starkly musical as only a dope fiend can understand.
The tea kettle's scream wakes you from sleep
and you pour a glass but the water is black
as if to reflect some unkindness
god recently visited upon your person
He tore the words from out your hands
and left his shadow on the sand.


2

Feeling final, dissipate.
Lost laws rumble in your bowels.
A piece of your beauty
Lost in the sewage of the mundane
Heart of Legend like Tom Cruise's
unicorn horn bruises and lit fuses
electric arrows-Eros fallen star chooses
And appled desire, string maiden-white nooses
those teeth bare from a body, no skins or fleshes
knotting for her no, she says no as, just frightened
she pulls away, tugging lavender strings from his hands
trailing wisteria and crocuses and scents of vanilla
A piebald wind of oily dreams
swirls devils in the snow's skin.


3

Marred mark, the wolfbane’s hark:
a starred lark, a leaf’s bark.
Nestled between Albatross wings
Slung around its neck like a noxious pendant
or crying savior, attempting creation
(or credit)... her hands her hands her hands... making
small gestures, touching simply and openly the bruises
left by dissonant shadows and stark murmurs.
like two paths crossed, but never traveled
the mind becomes thick and possibility addled
thick like cooled oatmeal,
addled like wet wood.


4

Sweet shining is the elementary and elemental
sun, not divisible into three-hundred thousand pieces. She
blew upwards and outwards like the skin of the moon does,
soft and smelling of sea life, mirrored
against the harsh surface of the stove
a stolen glance sending sharp shivers
filling her with lubricious desires
like a blind fish casserole in the oven
a tooth chipped on a hidden pearl
broken heels on red carpet, tragedy
must play a game of catch, careful
to unhand only over Turkish weaves.
to crunch upon like autumn leaves
their corpses lay like days gone by
till oily rain watered their beds
and asters grew in graves denied


5

Leaning toward the wall: unfortunate
misleading lines and crossed-out skies
Glowing with a rockets red glare
Battle cries drown out the anthems they march to
tut um and drum tut um drum tut um drum tut um drum tut
an apricot juicy and splice, melts on the tongue like burgundy and chintz
My teeth ache with smiles
as heavy as a thousand lakes
a burden of unforgivable weight
and unseeming pertinence.


6

Anything in my hands turns into origami
when I'm upset. I submit to the folds and folds
letting your dirty laundry run through my hair.
I keep my face clean around the mouth.
two sets of teeth, two lips, and a tongue
teasing, pleading, telling me to Stay
Telling me the coffee is in the freezer,
the toilet seat down, and I knowing
your sweet mouth in frown, your anger keeps flowing
to rise from the belly, discourse keeps me going
life begins at the moment when life becomes a question,
and/or the binary dichotomy begins to break down
leaving only drippings, drippings
dripping down the static glass.


7

My bed, it has three corners;
Three corners have my bed.
your face, etched
on the four chambers of my heart
a treatise of desperation with preface
by the sandwich she abandoned
brandishing cellophane sine waves,
floats through the skinned melody of their conversation
it is a fleshless exposition and development;
it is always a perfect cadence; always going going home.