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Leo Durrant

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Logophobia: Scrabble War VIII
by Leo Durrant

Monday, December 10, 2007
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Leo Durrant
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           >> View all 26

No more rhymes, now. I mean it!


your whiplash words
still slice my ears
with bone-tipped fears
and sanguine tears
that run in blurs

your biting prose
like cat-o-nine
leaves bleeding lines
upon my mind
in vicious rows

your acid rhymes
burn holes in me
so others see
and greater crimes

you strip away the thin veneer
and broadcast what I cannot bear
I can not bear

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Reviewed by Cryssa C 2/8/2008
I like the rhythm of this poem. I always read your poems and come away feeling as though there was a cryptic message there that I don't know if I caught. Maybe it is that little piece of autumn in each poem that is ever elusive in being completely pulled out and brought into full view and clarity...
Reviewed by Ronald Hull 12/14/2007
Sensitivity to a tee. Poetry cuts--deep.

Reviewed by William Cryer 12/12/2007
A freakin apotheosis of wit. I tremble in your presence, Sir Leo. You tread lofty and rarefied regions--and gracefully--so magnanimously--on occassion you let drop a crumb for us to feast upon.
Reviewed by blue soplain 12/11/2007
anybody want a peanut?
i jsut love the meandering of your mind. .. .
the slosh, swashbuckle of thoughhts htat render me dizzy giddy crazy smiling. ..
at least its not a kissing book :}

Reviewed by l West (Reader) 12/11/2007
Wow Leo! This is fantastic. I think "Charlie" will have to work extremely hard to top this one. This is definitely a WAR piece. I am glad you are not hurling these s.words at me!
Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 12/11/2007

Wow. WOW! No more rhyme wins me with its...rhyme. LOL Love this one, indeed, so much so, it's going into my library.

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Reviewed by Charlie 12/10/2007
Holy Cow!!! (She removes her fingers from around his neck) Now that is Something, Highness. (She takes two steps backwards and curtseys down to her knees.) WOW! (she says, with unsuppressed awe and wonder. She gets up.) Holy, Holy Cow! (she repeats, as if she doesn't have a clue what to say-- and she doesn't-- I know.) That, my chum, is a beastie of a poem to top! But I... I am like clotted cream. And I WILL rise to the top! My Lines-- my s:words against your ink steel, and you think a simple little pen wiggle like "I can not bear" will make me happy? Hmm? Now if I only had a haulocaust cloak, that would be something... (she runs off to her den to rummage in her closet... )

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