mood exercises

in an exercising mood – taking pieces and playing with them – this is totally not poetry, just broke into stanzas because it’s a habit – curious if it comes across like I intended, though it’s a rough sketch


The statue of marble stood resilient
for more than two centuries and the rifle
resting on the shoulder never wavered.
None today can say what went on in its mind
for that long but all scholars agree
they can safely hypothesize
that by the time a full century
called it a night an assumption had come

along and seemed innocuous
but ended up establishing
interrelated community pools
whose proprietors never doubted
foundations had to outlast at least three
if not four generations those days’ infants
would someday beget. But this day
that began bright as most days in this time

and place got a rude surprise in the form
of a sinister appearance which forced
the marble statue to face a truth
more hideous than a nightmare
in that the assumption of
an eternal legacy had always
been no more than a shore of marsh
and mud, as the heroic white robes

began to soften under the persistent
acidic nibbles from the carpet
of fire ants the sizzling fissures
vomited from a molten cauldron,
and the fire ants’ millions
of serrated, razor mandibles
burned like those white robes that told
of so many deeds heroic were dry

oak leaves and the madly voracious
fire ants having surrounded the base
like they had human generals
in rear ranks they closed like a donut
losing its hole and were eating
the statue’s ankles and the statue
couldn’t stay marble and agonized
cries began from the mouth

that was no longer marble
and no longer set in a proud
skyward angle and the figure
had never been marble but armor
and the cries caused the splendorous
statue to lose its famed stoic
form so the folds in the robe
lost luster as much as a shape

and the armor began to melt
and then was melting and the rifle
was melting as it was always
plastic since it had been cut from a toy
and all the melt slid like a slice of hot
cheese down what arms and legs that never
had to feel any real pain
and as the rifle cried itself

to syrup, arms began to flail
so the few pieces qualifying
for a stamp of origin
spilled and those pieces which on contact
with the wrinkled ground changed right away
to appetizing bread crumbs
at which notice pigeons gossiping
nearby quit their idle pecks

at stray grain specks and their contortionist,
neck-twisting, gossips, because disruptive
waves conjured from unadulterated
evil found them and they’d eschewed
measures in spiritual
protection but now their soft
syllables were insane organ
screeches and they were no longer

easy-going gray shadows
but of such blackness as to make
the crows in the woods appear saintly
and their claws became jagged tines
and their wings were like vulture wings
as they darkened what little ground
that had not become a writhing bog
of evil ants and the pigeons

acting little like the peaceful
pigeons senior citizens
fearlessly feed in parks and disclose
private yearnings to, feeling as all
reasonable people
feel, that park pigeons have no innate
abilities to visit harm
on humans, but this was a storm

of pure perversion, perverting
all things commonly accepted,
for these were pigeons taken
into possession by occult
powers, thus were all but forced
to cloud all the space around
the melting marble pedestal
as they swooped in and gobbled

all pieces which went from marble
to blood and bone to bread in an instant
but also tore them into crummier
crumbs as two tugged a fat chunk
apart and then flew off to a place
forbidden to what was left
of the withering figure
who for so many centuries

hid within marble armor.
Now this did not happen at night
although the atmosphere mimicked
a haunted mansion’s midnight, nor
did this happen on an isolated
isle but very public
did this demon disaster
party transpire, so a pair

of lovers who’d had their hands
in each others’ pants behind
a small but thick wall of boxy
hedges didn’t catch on to
the transformative warping
invasion right away because
they had their lips locked together
and tongues were dancing close

and sloppy and the gent’s fingers
had created a cadence
as though designing a new
musical position such as
a pudding percussionist.
But eventually the cries
of agony reached them and the gent
began to extract his two fingers

but the lass grabbed his wrist and hissed
he dare not cease his caresses
for over her clitoris
his hand’s heel had swished while he
tickled her depths. He replied that he too
was nigh on eruption thanks to her
jerking him and had the cry
of agony not flown so close

he’d by now surely send that telltale
cleanser scent into their immediate
world, but he did not see how a cry
of agony would not be
a killer of the mood though he’d
understand if his masterful way
with his tips and pads painted
rhapsody in his lass’s noggin.

He added that she’d leaked enough nectars
that scented evidence would not soon vanish
so they could see what was going on
and maybe a rescue crew
was already on the way
and he’d get a whiff of her remnants
and they could get right back to sticking
their hands in each others’ pants.

She said she sometimes wished she’d
not fallen in love with such
a humanitarian as she
buttoned her pants and reluctantly
trotted to catch up with him
as he entered the clearing
which happened just when the cries
of agony sounded as though they

finally drowned and their mouths fell
open in horror when they saw the mound
of dark red that did not completely
cover the flesh of a face
they knew had been that of a man
and they screamed as they’d be expected
to scream and it was like the scream
sent a message to the mound

of ants who turned like a scarlet
turret and began to run
like a tide of acid towards them.
Meanwhile two other figures whispered
in shadows. One gestured with an open
palm and the other shrugged and slapped
his hands on his thighs as though
he’d had enough incompetence

but inhaled until stilled
and exhaling on acceptance.
Blustered about trying something different
and maybe horror could entertain
as well as fingers playing with pudding
but rescinded on understanding the depth
of dependence on romance and flowers.
And so the ants halted

and the general ant shrugged and said
okay go ahead and hit the rewind
and the pigeons regurgitated
all those morsels and a few
minutes later the marble
statue stood erect again
and the lovers were back behind their hedge
where a brand new volcano was born.


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.
This entry was posted in exercise, playing with prosy things, poeticprosish, poetry, vignette, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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