First Fig Writers’ Collective

We played a game–write a line, pass it. Draw that line as a picture, hide the line, pass it. Write the line from that picture, hide the picture, pass it, &c. We then took the first and last lines of our finished games and used them as the beginning of our dirty napkins. Six writers, seven-line poems.

Eat the Text
My year of paper faces
the operations of discourse
Fuck it. I will not be owned by a blog.
Over an empty question
Distilled out of sunshine and oxblood,
I am sorry about the upcoming sequel.
The prequel, too, hurt my feelings.

Intestines make me snicker
the yoga monster must be fed,
cats sometimes poop when the wind blows in the window
These rules are given to every small child who enters my dojo. Why?
Why?
I am supposed to sit cross-legged on the floor, unraveling
And yet these children keep busting through the windows!
like intestinal spiders
silk ropes binding cuts against internal bleeding

This Used to Be My Metaphor
The thick dark sap of my own body
Oh magnificent sleeping world!
When shall we be free of these demons?
My middle split clean as an apple
and a small star at the center, oozing liquid
a wet song
a son of Adam
the sweetest temptation of Eve.

Pray for All Your Cranberries
One is the loneliest cranberry
I wish I knew how to play darts.
I’m too afraid to pick up this steel
It reminds me of my first jousting–oh! Sweet Cranberry!
I will best your tormentor or die.
You will lie down with lions… and be devoured
in mutant hunger

Fertilizer
Lines constrain and divide the bullshit.
The bullshit still gets on everything, however we try to stop it.
Stuck the shoes of my thoughts
The cowshit, the pigshit, the shit of brown horses
In waiting rooms, eyes rolled north.
Don’t mock me, manure.
Look, you little dick, I told you about the lines.

Do not teach this to your undergrads
“Men can be feminists too.” “I know,” he said.
So far I haven’t drowned in my endless cup of coffee.
My toes have touched the murky bottom, burned
The sunburned lands lie exposed, naked to the elements
Bradbury blushes
Who is a feminist here?
and who is left to know?

Five writers, five-line poems. Themeless!

The Great Descent
In the yellow sky, set against the green sun, it fell.
For some reason, the wings were malfunctioning
The people gathered ’round to stare–they mourned.
Another failed escape.
Who gave these goddamn kids feathers? That stupid fuck.

Delusions of Grandeur
Halfway up the hill my heart was in my mouth
And a hint of lung–but no spleen–where is it? what happened?
distraught and distracted, diseased and dying
Monkey-clown-penis. That is all.
Or is it?

The Worst Thing Ever
The trees are blue and barf pollen
until my eyes get sticky as with sap
Thin spider sap encasing the flotsam and jetsam
exploding spider eggs everywhere
blue spiders, to hide in the trees, waiting

Marrying High School Sweethearts
under these trees they are still just a girl and a boy
The masquerade has been over since dawn
and the leaves have stopped rustling. They are still.
Don’t be so narrow of hip! So wide of jaw!
Put down the damn feather shell and
Pick up your linens and jewelry. wear all your finery.

APPLES ARE GAY!!!
Eleventy blavillion seveseightian moths
descended on the field en masse
the pavilion was booked by an apple festival
and the fruits made a feast for the winged devils!
Cooked to wine sap in the pink sun,
The apples were safe.

First lines are randomly selected from plays on our host’s bookshelves. Five writers, five-line poems.

Just Desserts
Death followed by eternity, the worst of both worlds
But there’s ice cream for dessert
And I put new batteries in my vibrator!
I’m telling you, there’s nothing better than sugared orgasms
in eternity, just field after sticky field of caramel.
[Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard, p.72]

Bra Menagerie
Honey, don’t push with your fingers.
I’m coming, mother! Hold down the Oedipal fort–
either the glass will shatter first or
the breast will slip the trap
the beast, however, is stuck
[The Glass Menagerie, Tennessee Williams, p?]

Candles at both ends
He will destroy himself.
Immolation as natural selection
Enough of this poppycock
–His father said in the passenger seat
He hadn’t asked to burn
[Metamorphoses, Mary Zimmerman, p?]

The pigeon is stuck inside
So now you’ve seen the falcon’s back
And the cake is about to be served.
Backstreet’s back–all right?
Behind the dairy factory, with a cement floor.
Wet cement foot prints will live forever
[Miss Julie, August Strindberg, p.61]

Rules for living: You’re Doing It Wrong
Do not operate under heavy load:
hair dryers, toasters, or the machinations of friendship.
Left behind under penalty of bullshit
A penalty of the spanking gauntlet
Sore-assed, you face the day.
[This particular writer had a first line of her own, not play-related]

The first line had to be inspired by a philosopher on our host’s bookshelves. Three writers, six-line poems.

It’s A Fizzy One
Locke has thoughts on prisons–
Every Man Owns His Pot of Piss
–drink one, iron temptation, a coughing
A hacking! A hewing! This day, a darning,
though some holes can’t be mended
from which air wins and holds

Kepler’s Star
Sweet bataille plumage in your hand
Would you like a tissue?
Tug on the tip and ask a favor–sweetmeats–
Middle class fools miss out on the organ-meats–
grinding
A monkey watches,
grinning.

Tennessee Williams is so sad right now.
There’s a street named for Vico in Rome,
that contains my naughty green foam
(please) take a picture with red-hatted gnome
spilled from his form, simultaneous midnights
Oh rhyme scheme, what hast thou wrought? Never mind.
(we can always blame the gnome.)

Three writers, in the form of haiku.

bedtime for bonzo
ginger-bite, bubbles
Today a miracle fawn!
Not reddish, drunk dawn

Cold Foot Fetish
Following from fall
a long stretch of cold quiet
chilled toes in small boots

Pointy Boots
I fucked a clown boy
with a cowboy’s prudent sense
best rodeo yet.

Another round, this time with first lines all about Danielle.

Napoleon’s Belly Dost Not go Bare
–He Was Also Short
She will no longer bare her belly.
for if she does, she will be struck down
ostracized from society, cast out into the freezing cold
For Minnesota frowns upon trollops!
Strumpets are turned back at the border, dontcha-ho!
And even gay elephants can’t fight back.
She will wear button-ups and sensible trousers
One hand tucked into her coat, like Napoleon.

Cheese
Dark chocolate, avocado, Emo, and Sartre
these are a few of her favorite things
Soon she’ll only have the comfort of a hot dish
And a broad, broad “a”.
Radio playing, radio broken, radio days
Guitar strums and Skype and starry nights
Secure and warm. Absence doesn’t
make the heart grow fonder. It is already fondest.

The space between her pants
Drunkenly pedaling & swerving, dodging & weaving in traffic.
This bitch is gonna get hit.
So let’s hit on her! Are those space pants?
Sometimes you make me feel awkward.
But I like your bike. It’s shiny.
I’d want to get astride
Let my pants touch your space pants
And we will pedal, drunkenly–in my dreams.

Deal w/my emo bullshit, danielle
No one will ever laugh with me again.
I have lost my audience, so
Depart I must, taking my stories
To the deserts of Nairobi
To fields of yellow + orange
to meadows meant for one person alone
But she will come! She will find me!
And if she does not? Here I will stay.

SARTRE LOVE
or, Why is this poem so real?
I tell you in truth: all men are prophets
each one trumpets his own reality
Each one alone in the eyes of Others
Because others, as we know, constitute…….
These men, these prophets, know not what they say.
I tell you in truth: I know not what to say.
I lie so truthfully, I only deceive myself.
But baby, I can’t lie to you.
[hint: the first line is a quote]

Bifocals Are Awesome
Her hair looks cute, but how would it look straight?
Would she shape shift to meet its angular lines?
Would it make some other part of her coil
Most importantly, does the cuteness total remain the same? (Yes.)
What if she wore… bifocals?!
Is there some conservation of cuteness reaction able to counteract bifocals?
Fuck if I know.
And fuck you, bifocals are AWESOME!

Doctor, Doctor
Give me the news, I got a bad case of loving you.
And I want me some us
Now, please, and always
You make my life
control my fate.
BABY DON’T GOOOO
Seriously: quit playing games with
my black
icy
heart.
Cuz I can’t take it no moooore.

The saddest song on the smallest violin
She left a massacre behind her
One tiny red arm, detached
One bottom lip, turned blue, for lack of oxygen
traces of clown makeup smeared in hard to reach places
They call her Doctor Feelgood
But I only feel soft-hearted and sad.
Boom cha-boom, shama lama keboop.
Boo hoo–

Sara brought us a whole stack of word search puzzles. We solved them, then used some number of our words to create the first lines. Eight writers, eight-line poems.

Private Moment
I lost all my precious walnuts on my monocycle
rode all over the city trailing cracked shells & meat
until, mo love, you followed the trail and now you are my meat
I will scoop you from your cracked and broken husk
but not taste. My mouth would dry out
and I prefer meat to be moist, juicy
I lost all my precious walnuts on my monocycle
And oh, what fun that weasel had!
[Word Find: They Roll]

Fecund Faulty Female
Cultivate your land, your life, your grave.
Harvest your mind, your love, your taste
Then eat. Chew, swallow, slurp.
You are superstitious
You are kind
You are faulty, but you are mine
What filthy fecund sweetness!
Leave this house,
You smarmy wench!
[Word Find: Growing Basil]

Low Gravity
Oh astronaut, take off your sombrero
It will not help with the imploding. Or the exploding. It just will not help.
So press your face to my neck to get air
and prepare to be weightless
this is gonna suck for awhile
Like this poem! But with more pus.
Pus also won’t help with the exploding.
But it will form disgusting perfect spheres floating in space.
[Word Twist: Tip Your Hat]

Shore Leave
I’ve lost several things at sea:
A chest of treasured traces
An old wooden wheel
The dark brown of my hair, first blond, then gray
What was I thinking, throwing them overboard?
Lost and alone, we can’t fend for ourselves
So, let us jump into the sea and
Make a nest of seaweeds and strands
[Word Find: Take Leave]

Blue Above, Pink Below
This doll woman: fairy fingers, pink bottom, eyelash cup
She seems to sink and swell at the same time
Plump, blushing, all used up
Thrown out, forgotten, wet and shaken
Her sulfur tufts are wet and matted with earth,
I look to the sky!
barren. landscapes bereft of lite and hope
I look to the doll! She sinks. She swells.
[Angle Find: Wild Mushrooms]

Cigarette
or I’ll Make Love to You
Her warm nectar hunted his furry form
Some carnivores can climb, some beauties
Others only move down, downhill
pulled by gravity’s sweet tooth
as he swallows them whole
one long red-gouged stripe on the left flank,
Whether it is sweet or not
And swallows them whole.
[Word Find: Going Batty]

Anymore
hairless skin, fish like shape
friends akin, slow escape
There is nothing but your nape, your
drunken slope–limbless and
estranged from all that came before
a sigh escapes, a lonesome groan
a pain leaks out, a quiet moan
But I’m not lonely anymore.
[Word Find: The Music Makers]

The Yeti Cometh
Rolling snow into a terry washcloth, the shape of a snake,
Are all the winters this long and blustery?
Are all the winters full of snakes?
Are all the snakes so long and blustery?
This washcloth is orange.
In the snow it is nothing like blood.
The winters are sleepy and slithering.
Is all the snow this white and curving?
[Word Find: All Wet]