another excerpt (from a tentacle piece)

Tentacle Ted’s Tentaclit Rose
was gone and he was left
in their apartment alone
and he stared at the curtains
through which he’d have to go
to set up the card-playing room.
Hoped but didn’t hope,
the first tentacle buddies
would arrive soon; and he
couldn’t decide if it was worse

actually having to listen
to the sounds the creature
above created and which oozed
through fissures so hairy-small
that they were all but invisible,
or if the anticipation,
the knowing,
the creature’s sounds
would visit, any moment,
sometimes early,

other times late;
no, Tentacle Ted couldn’t decide
which was worse. The one thing
Tentacle Ted was certain of
was that he would prefer neither.
Another memory took a vivid shape
and wasn’t shaken by his frown
so did not vanish but only took
more clarity; remembered one of his
tentacle buddies asking

what the hell was bugging him;
they’d been in the other tentacle’s
neighborhood, a cavernous tavern,
downing mugs
of microorganism bubbles.
Tentacle Ted had tried to be
a cool cucumber
about brushing off
his tentacle buddy’s question
but the stresses had built up

so much that Tentacle Ted
really got bent out of shape
to the point it looked like
he might really snap.
It was one thing for a tentacle
to get bent out of shape
now and then, but for a tentacle
to actually snap,
especially in certain
tentacle tunnel sectors,

like the working class
tentacle tunnel sectors,
like this was – bad thing
for a tentacle to do;
and the bar-tentacle
even came to their table
and told Tentacle Ted he’d better
get a hold of himself, and fast,
or else he – the bar-tentacle-
would surely have to cut him off…


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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