A Conversation

 

I've read what you wrote.

And? Brilliant, yes?

Brilliant in its own way. If cheap sentiment were white sand, you'd be a resort beach.

Harsh.

So I've taken away your shoes to teach you a lesson.

Bitch.

Hey now. 

Why are you here, anyway?

Community service. I missed choir practice again. 

Your lap is comfy!

Get off me, pervert.

Don't have kittens. What's the matter, you don't like bathos?

Why don't you try writing something decent?

When pigs fly.

Oink! (flap flap flap)

Uh...kay, bye Felicia. Weird chick.

(from afar) Write something decent, Steve. 

________

for the Sunday Muse #190. 

The City Of Ecstatic Kitsch

for James

"There is a lit candle inside every girl,"
and other such cornball stuff
swirled themselves up out of your Courvoisier
under a neon flamingo
who kindly took our confession,
pink all over
from the things she heard.

For you, love,
I burn bayberry, then sandalwood, then sweet apple.
For you,
though I am sober and you are gone,
I jealously guard this gorgeous little flame.
_____

For Real Toads mini-challenge.

 When I was young, I had a platonic but marvelous connection with a man who was like my other half before he simply went off the grid and disappeared. Anywhere we went, if just one of us showed up, everybody asked where the other one was.

In the following video, the interpolated lyric is "Va Pensiero" (Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves) by Giuseppe Verdi (the composer, not the kitten!).

 

Sock Monkey Consults the Ouija

The past is one thing--
it's always the same old quicksand,
but hold still, and enough suns will dry you loose.

On the other hand,
Sock Monkey has been moving up for years.
He never gave a big green shit who he had to screw in order to rise.
But now?
He's just hanging on.
The thing about the future is, that it's so uncertain.
Try the dart board.
Check out the Ouija.
Ex-Mrs. Sock Monkey cleaned him out,
took the kids,
the cash,
the floor beneath his soft round feet.

A lot of things can be overcome,
but some suck the soul right out of anybody.
Wood veneer crushes initiative.
Bad wallpaper encourages self-harm.
Ugly armchairs send anybody to the madhouse.

Behold, Sock Monkey,
suspended like a cartoon character, cliffside, with branch.
If he lets go, he lands on the desk of Edwin Albert Peach, CPA,
his future forfeit, himself, a debit never to be recouped.
So, Mister Monkey,
go wild,
ask the Ouija a question.
You'll have to let go, to touch the planchette,
but c'mon, make a leap of faith.
You are a monkey, after all.

See the future revealed.
YES
we have no
bananas.
NO
you'll never get her back--
Mrs. Monkey.
Day-oh
Day-ay-ay-oh.
Day, de light, and you'll never go home.
_____

for Mag 221. This whole scene, with its dreary browns and defeated decor, screamed 1970s divorced dad pad.