Monstrous Mental Gym Poem: de-monstrate, not tell
I have been reading lists of clichés;
listening to talks about random violence-or-not at chuckycheezes
spoiler: it’s usually a domestic affair
weapons of mass destruction
shooting of mentally ill patients in hospital beds
snatches of gravity’s rainbow
and long re-reads of tortuous tales
It made the time on the treadmill go by somewhat faster
even without stem-cell time crystals
Touché cliché has a bonjour tristesse ring to it, no?
like sweat through a lulu leotard
– I am trying to think of a monster-
in 1500 words
morphs and changes.
Now cooing sweet nothings,
then tearing self-esteem apart-
It throttles the black dog;
tickles the tummy full of cherry pie-
whispers, cajoles, shouts;
pulls at bruised toe-nails.
It pinches off yeasty-dough pizza thought bubbles
and spins and flattens and tosses them.
Some plop down like toe-biter offspring;
take root, potato-eyed spud roots
with leaves and shoots and spider hair.
Others crawl away, skinless, raw, unlit:
shoestring allumette fries.
The stem cell time crystals voice their opinion:
They protest too much, methinks.
Vulture paté, it’s a thing:
They came for its liver, every day
and it grew back by night.
Now, they sit, own talons nailed to a plank; force-fed themselves.
It’s a delicacy, you see.
The post-prandial pancreatic pleasure
de mon traitor
the good father
That is, the water bug dad:
not a monster, you say.
When you tear the legs off a sea star,
you can grow five new ones.
Twenty-five torn off could soon add up.
High five, oleaginous prince,
you get a five star review!
We’re going on a monster hunt
I see you now:
You are a true monster,
The woke monster
The delicious monster, caught by its tail
Descend the stairway to hell on tippy-toes.
Sorry, Pops, what did you say?
No: just toast
How can toast be just?
A toast to justness then!
It’s just a lemma after all.
A choice between the high road and the low one:
bract or chaff.
The grass roots of a double-take.
But don’t panicle;
there’s no stigma attached to this ovary,
the anthers in fact a filament of your imagination.
Don’t unsheathe the blade
of ridicule so readily.
True post-modern poetry
is hard to conceive
And readily aborted
No mint will sweeten that breath:
vulture vomit is an involuntary evolutionary un-evil defence mechanism.
You know that.
A sticky wicket, when your software won’t update
Even with the license key
It leaves one vulnerable
to all kinds of unholy trolls
Raging at the fall of the good knight.
Do not go gently.
Fight that good fight.
Into the night rode the five hundred
their duty done
Screw the one thousand;
we do this for fun
So: nine more words:
it should have been none.
Now: the other thousand words will have to be a picture, because I’m out of time and talent. Hey, it’s pi day today.
- Kafka Birthday: A Letter From Franz Kafka To His Father (huffingtonpost.com)
- Franz Kafkas Geburtstag (keepthings.wordpress.com)
- Today’s Google Doodle: A Tribute to Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis (newsfeed.time.com)