2014 #306

History huffed. With its huff History
set its hands on its hips and watched
evaporation swallow the projector
and the screen melt into the wall
and History said, “Why am I not surprised?”
Glossary’s eyes were closed like thinking it
possible to wishfully teleport
to another scene, muttered, “I refuse.
I refuse acceptance. How far must we
venture until we’ll not suffer intrusions?”

That’s about the time the romantic
interest appeared from the cottage’s
kitchen and Glossary had to look
and looking only thrust the despair
and despondence together so they
became one indefinable blur
which doubled the pain as it pushed deeper
because the romantic interest
really was buxom in the bosom
and a see-thru veil hung flimsy on her

and a kit containing instruments
a wanton nursing student might carry
around lay dead at her feet white ankle
socks dressed and she put on a pout that said
she was as blue as he for her
intentions matched his suspicion
about becoming her helpless captive
and indeed he’d spend a thousand nights
tasting her romance fruits as well as
the ciders she’d dip from her vast cellar

of lewd; but that dream too withered before
all their eyes, as they heard the helicopter
buzzing above the roof of what had
just been the coziest, tucked-away
cottage imaginable, and then heard
the ugly click of the concrete megaphone.
“I hate Reality Patrol.”
History nodded. Romantic Interest
was too downcast to do any nodding.
“We all hate Reality Patrol.”

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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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