Asbestos dream, sea salted skin, robot dating, and a sky of seven.
From a dirty job to bums in sewers sung beautifully, to something short and lovely, to a look at how fathers will more than likely not meet your mothers, to Babel, to a sky of seven gracing breath upon a dog thought to be doomed, episode 33 on Prose. Radio brings the noise, pleasure, pain, blood, and loving grace from six writers that get it. Dig? Dig.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuyDd9JOnSg
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814941/when-i-was-seventeen https://www.theprose.com/post/814834/not-quite-9 https://www.theprose.com/post/814985
https://www.theprose.com/post/815035/the-robo-ghost https://www.theprose.com/post/814938/babel https://www.theprose.com/post/815085/seventh-sky
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
The Robo-Ghost
The best thing about the internet dating sites is what they’ve done for her confidence. She used to think she was attractive, now she knows she is hot. Now she dresses hot, more revealing, while tight-roping on taller heels. She acts differently too, now, but that is the worst thing about the internet dating sites… what they have done to her confidence.
She only swipes on the best, and they always swipe back. Always. She is hot. Super hot. She must be. She is a princess. Doesn’t a princess deserve the best?
But dating is different these days. Men don’t buy dinner anymore. Movies are a thing of the past. Dating is drinks now, always drinks. After two she’s tipsy, having not eaten. Tipsy enough to be silly… and friendly. But guys like silly… and friendly. She is proof. They like her. They always like her. After her third drink she wants to dance. They accommodate her. Why not? Dancing is cheap enough.
There are more drinks at the club, and the pounding-rhythmic music she craves, and sensual, hypnotic gyrations. She finds herself all in, every time. After all he is tall, nicely dressed, and he smells fantastic. They all smell fantastic. Don’t they? Those most desirable guys on the dating apps? She could smell them all night, and she usually does.
There are mirrors at the club. She looks hot in the mirrors. So does he. She knows this because she sees other women looking. They’ll even pass him a napkin when her head is turned, forgetting the mirrors. This is ok though. She doesn’t mind it. She wants them to want him. Why not? She is super-hot. His eyes are only for her, and she knows it. She likes it. He knows where this night is heading. Where she is leading it. Besides. Would she even want him if no other women did? No, of course not. In fact, their interest fuels her. It excites her, so that she dances closer, backing herself against him, arching her back, watching herself in the mirror, moving to the music, fueling his excitement. And he is excited. She can feel his excitement. And she is hot. She can feel this, too. And knowing she is fuels her.
And the sex is always fantastic. Always… what she can remember of it. And there is always sex. And always at his place. Always. But somehow on the Uber ride home, she never feels hot. She never looks hot. Not ever. What she looks in the morning light, and what she feels, is washed out and ran through. But no worries. The feeling never lasts.
He won’t call her again.
That is dating today, for those like her, stuck in the robotic grind.
But next weekend she’ll swipe on another. As always, it will be another match. She is hot. So she puts the dress back on, the really tiny one. And the shoes, the really big ones. And she tells herself how hot she looks as she goes to meet this new guy for drinks.
Mountains, crooked arms of the moon, send rain, and where you cope.
'Mountains' by Prince started the morning off right, winding around a few stones of Prose., one legendary, preceded by two new bloods whose words cut through like butter beneath blade. Beautiful words from these measured and magnificent artists. Kick back, but also let it all fall off the sides and get into the words of these writers. Smooth and rich, like coffee, like all things that last.
Here's the link to episode 32 on Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTiBo32fmDs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814678/10-minute-walk https://www.theprose.com/post/814650 https://www.theprose.com/post/814328/news-flash-it-appears-that-its-not-so-much-how-you-cope-as-where-you-cope
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Homeless Eyes
She punctured me from out of glass
Without intent as she strode passed
We broke the barriers of class...
The mask society permits...
To gaze into her windswept eyes...
So hungry and unsupervised...
How many of us still survive
Bouncing upon this rustic plane?...
With judgements quashing liquid hearts...
And pointed views like traffic cones...
It's easier to close the door
Where yowls mutate and turn to roars...
I see her digging through the trash...
This angel from another sphere...
The broadcast she keys in is vast...
Her shirt in shreds, as she draws near...
Ebony skin so dark and deep...
I'll see her when I go to sleep..
She floats over the concrete slabs...
Where shooting stars go flying past...
Bold advertising overhead
Will paint a world unequal to
The broken sequins from the chain
That someone dispelled in the rain...
To gaze into her windswept eyes...
So hungry and unsupervised...
How many of us still survive
Bouncing upon this rustic plane?....
They're closing books on human rights...
Decks are stacked, the lines extend...
Now more than ever, I'll need a friend
To gaze into my homeless eyes...
If you have something left to give...
If you're susceptible, and raw...
If you resist the claw machine
You'll find me dancing by the stream...
Maybe tonight when moonbeams spill
Our sights will lock and without words
We'll shed our chains, the flood within
Will draw us spinning out our skins...
Bunny Villaire
5/6/24
Edit #4
Hot Chocolate, pork and beans and prose, four ladies, spit upon a page, and lemonade air.
A Challenge created by putski brings home the first glance on today's feature on Prose. Radio, where Hot Chocolate bass-lines the morning into the world created by four talents and their heavy lifting of our minds into - then onto, a plateau of a dimension defined by coping, four seasons in heavenly bodies warming by the fire, a madman's babbling, and into the lemonaide air with a flash.
Here's a link to the show.
https://youtu.be/W0u4DfJbSx8
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814391/the-cheshire-cat-with-a-side-of-pork-and-beans https://www.theprose.com/post/814503/togetherness-for-the-whole https://www.theprose.com/post/814610/i-found-these-things https://www.theprose.com/post/814243
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose team.
A little black dot, balance, decaying leaves, morning dew, and infinite jest.
There's a little black dot on the Sun today... it's the same old thing as yesterday... except for the writers featured on the show. Nothing yesterday about them, until tomorrow, but who puts a timer on art, anyway? In episode 30 on Prose. Radio, the words roll smoothly with the likes of Mariah, area_man, LARGE, The Villaires, and the man of area once more, who closes the show with the complexity of family.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYvrATECLOQ
And here are the pieces featured.
ttps://www.theprose.com/post/814482/a-violence-unfamiliar-to-most https://www.theprose.com/post/814486/balancing-the-bar https://www.theprose.com/post/814424
https://www.theprose.com/post/814475/first-words-of-day-in-the-morning-dew https://www.theprose.com/post/814476/infinite-jest
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Where It All Began
The first time
I ever did anything wrong
Was the summer of 1974
I had created
A finger-paint masterpiece
By smearing
All of the colors together
Into a murky green
Portrait of God
Look what you’ve done!
My teacher told me
Now it doesn’t look like anything!
Man oh man!
Looking back
I wish
I could have been brave
And known
How to articulate
My feelings
I would have really
Let her have it
Stupid cow
David Burdett
5/4/2024
First Words of Day, in the Morning Dew
Poets.
Where others are tortured
by sleeplessness
We turn torment into art form
And lay into it tooth and nail
With all the entrails
Hanging loose
So juices spill, rolling down
The crevasse...
Blotted up from the chin
onto a diner serviette and
repressed in print...
The pain still fresh expressed
like from a grinding mill
where sand is powdered
into dream...
Sweet is our profession
With the only hand on the call
Box being as transparent as a
Vesper
As it hovers over a heart
In the breaking darkness of dawn
When it has just freshly been Forgiven...
Languid in our vision, as cool
And calm as palm fronds
Swaying as the
Breeze exudes
The breath,
The word becoming new life
As dead sheets are turned...
And the corners are tucked
5/4/24
Bunny Villaire
& Mavia Villaire