Wednesday, November 21, 2018

A Feast for the Senses

Warning: Strong Language, Mature Themes.

A writing prompt focusing on the five senses.

Caronia is a feast for the senses. A bangling, rambling, smoking, conniving, gamboling, gesticulating, flatulating, festooning, simmering, careening stewpot of the known world. If you can’t find it in Caronia, it isn’t to be found, and if it can be found, it can be bought, and if it can be bought it can be bedazzled and then sold again at four times the price. I tell the willing rubes that I was born here and know this saucy wench of a city like the back of my own cod, but only the latter is truthfulness. I came here like all the rest with gimbals in my eyes, searching for the city of spangles and thrice-fried dumplings, and found all I was looking for and none of it. Once you shiv yourself in between her bosoms, Caronia both loves you and shits down your throat. She feeds you perfect cherries on lotus blossoms with one hand and crushes your walnuts with the other. But she’s mine and I’m hers like a bubo shaped like the Mother Mary.

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

On My Way Home

A quick poem inspired by a Skazat Poetry Slam.

A perfect night,
Once threatening rain; no more.
Walking against the red,
A jaunt in my step.
Where are the fairies on the corner?
Their domain was once vast,
But now only vestiges remain.
Perhaps the cruel without imagination,
Tore them down.
Always a party here,
Lights and a whiff of cannabis.
Is it fair that ditch lilies are acceptable,
But wild weeds must be mown?
Now the fireflies come out,
Advertising phosphorescent sex,
While old women discuss doctors,
And broken bones.
Fading, already forgotten,
Will I remember this when I reach home?
.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Fowl/Foul Peace/Piece: (3 min)

Theme for this session's prompts was horrid homonyms.
A foul moon hung in a sky of bloody clouds. Out of the night a single white goose flew and landed upon the countess’s windowsill. It was Roving, the white fowl of the east, and often it was the herald of peace, but not tonight. This night when the countess retrieved the bird it was sickly and thin. Feathers dropped from its wings like pieces of fine silk and fell to the floor as she placed it in a basket. She had to summon her marshal from the green lands. The peace was broken, war had come.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Yesterday My Forehead Had the Number Nine on It, Today it is Eight

Timed writing prompt.

I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy!

My eyes are closed and I’m doing deep breathing exercises and trying to calm my mind. This is not happening. Breathe in. Yesterday was just a bad dream. Breathe out. I open my eyes. The number eight is still drawn on my forehead as if in ash. Yesterday the number was nine. No it wasn’t. I turn on the tap and fill my hands with water and splash it on my face over and over. First it’s cold, but soon it is hotter than I can stand and I have to stop and turn it colder.

I take the nubbin of soap and work up a thick, white lather in my hands then press them to my dripping forehead and scrub and scrub and scrub. Minutes, pass. My face feels raw. I stop and rinse my face again and again and again. Finally, I turn the water off and glance up at the glass. My face stares back at me, the smeary grey number unchanged. I press my palms against my eyes until I see flashes of light in the darkness. When I take my hands away and blink until the afterimages fade, the eight is still there.

Only it’s not. Of course it’s not. It wouldn’t make any sense if it was. It didn’t make sense yesterday and it doesn’t make sense today.

“I am not crazy!” I scream at the mirror.

“I am not crazy!” the mirror screams back.