Sentinels, eighty feet high, tower over the forgotten Troopers.
Their guts a pool of spaghetti electronics.
Too high for vandals to blind.
They were legends once heralding the champions, bathing the defeated. Bright pinion stars to lead the victors home or wrap the fallen in halcyon halos – immortalizing the night’s incandescent splendor.
i stop and listen carefully
to the sound of something breathing
i can’t see
yet
Stained-rust and twisted, roof sway-backed in distrust. Our home speaks its silent truth.
Hard spat fencing in jagged mouthfuls of pitted words strangle all hope and mercy.
Our home – a desolate, intimate abattoir.
Welcome.
Part of my Story 55 series from 2017. Using just 55 words, I would create a standalone tone prose poem.
Slide into molten heaven
With wet lingering lips
Chocolate flavored lover
Tongue coated cream
Velvet envelope
Fingers scalded by your touch
So, now we are inside the cop shop and the officers don’t care about the photo evidence provided by our narrator. She’s frustrated, asking questions of herself and the cops. It clearly doesn’t end well.
Lank of pelt and fleet of step, you stare down at me.
Foam flecks your muzzle.
Rank, wild meat eater, i quake as you adjust your veil.
Eat me. i’m waiting.
Outlaw Poetry 