Purple sheets and iron rings
A trumpet whore.
But I prefer the subtle strokes
of half-guessed thoughts.
Aslant leaves all to be desired.
It’s my favourite time of the week: Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub. Come and join me for some fun, a real community vibe and good poetry, of course!
This was a 5 minute writing exercise that I was set in a writing group, based on a photo prompt. I’ve been unable to find this picture again, so you will have to take my word for it: it was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of a Cuban woman in white traditional dress, smoking a cigar, looking out of the window. She is flashing an insolent smile straight at the camera. Some makeshift flowerpots are teetering precariously on her windowsill.
The thyme is doing well this year. Grown all over, in a hurry like a virgin about to be married, all ready to jump into the nearest pot. Majoram, now that was a tricky one, hasn’t sprung the smallest green shoot. Rowdy waste of time. But who said aloe vera would never make it in a tin? Just bore’em and stuff’em, I always say. Look at it now: it’s tall, it’s spiky, it sucks up my smoke like a greedy suitor.
Speaking of suitors, it’s nearly time for him to pass by again for the day. He can’t keep away. He thinks he’s so irresistable in his shuffling walk-by, with his fancy hat, his spit-polished shoes, his thin moustache. I’m sure he can dance and gaze into my eyes for days. All he needs is a little feeding, watering, to grow into the man he could become. Do me proud, like my plants, every day.
This time there will be a pause in his shuffle. This time he will look up. And learn to linger.
‘Glower!’ he said.
And with this incantation
he led me to inebriation.
I hereby file this citation
that, despite all the calibration,
I cannot circumvent
the decimation of my brain cells.
And that’s a quotation.