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.
Tag: Poetry
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Part of my Story 55 series from 2017. Using just 55 words, I would create a standalone tone prose poem.
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Slide into molten heaven
With wet lingering lips
Chocolate flavored lover
Tongue coated cream
Velvet envelope
Fingers scalded by your touch
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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.
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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.
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By this point, we flashback to the club. And it’s all a blur of drugs and gap-toothed memory. Staccato frames of maybe. Then a surprise. A big surprise.
I’ve used language from the beginning to allude to a corpse, a dead body – and now it arrives. In the most unexpected fashion.
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As the story unfolds, we start learning more about the freelance photo scene in NYC in the 1970’s. Music magazines, clubbing, drugs, disco and more dominated with freelancers scrabbling to pay the bills, get high and maintain their status.
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As the prose work continues, I see this as a great way to explore the poetic form. Combining POV and inner monologue in a free form way.
Outlaw Poetry 