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The Child of the Lamp
by Foretacn
Writer
12 years ago
A Good book is the one you
pontificate to, the one you
raise, the one you ululate, you
scream.
The 'Forward book of Poetry' gripped
Forwardly between denim'd thighs, I
Sat, and read, and heard the nocks that
Bounced and clanged upon the door nob.
Feet tramped and a nob entered. "Oh hello…"
And etcetera. Ha. "Oh, Mr X, how are you?"
My eyes clamber, and there she is, somehow
buttocks teleported from door to seat, feet wide
and strident, palpably patient of the lax hair,
the tightened jeans, the pages clenched in-between.
A moment fritters freely as I remain mute, nothing to
say to another's (a mother's) acquaintance, her face clenched; genially
genuine, analysing my lap from the sofa's pennant dignity.
My mother enters, adjacent sofa, both noting me with
the window light roped fast to the base of my neck where
I stoop to read, like one wizened prematurely, and, I, mute,
finding myself privy to opinions, the acquaintance proselytising
with awkward, serpentine tongue that "It's great to get stuck in
A Good Book". I dumbly counter, then audibly, superficially, agree,
to not appear rude, ungrateful or uncanny, then release interest for a lame horse.
They turn, rotate, of course they gravitate
together, of course
now the sider has been promptly addressed
Endorse another, the main,
dip, nodding as expected
at the feign announcements,
The two
rotate, contriving dialogue, and in the Forward Book I remain backward
A centrepiece to another's speech before being entirely bailed from the ship
As the church matriarch, with grin as loose as a candle wax
drip
Takes stock of the truth.
"…Gas lighting you see". A glimmer of understanding
And a demanding piety, as the common foe rises irreverently up. "…This is how Satan works…"
Nods the seraph, earthed with her feet on the
Pulpit
Of the
Carpet
Where
Her sha-
-dow ca-
-resses
The pile
And her
Arms, with
every stress
up and down-
-beat orchestrates
her argument that we've
All been misled and the Community
Is here for you, "...for now the man's gone we
can all breathe easy and sit on our shins
come sin come shin."Fuck it.
In the dark I
Lose my patience and
Curl in my gut, and the page
oscillating, is abandoned to abaddon
With a fresh rip on the blurbed back sheet
on the
insert,
On the
Mono-
-logues,
On the
fiction
on the
fantasy
on in the
headings
through the
watermarks,
through the scree
Through me. ©Foretacn
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General
Rating
Category
Sub-Category
Species
Resolution
File Size
Poetry
All
Unspecified / Any
50 x 50
3.2 kB
This one has been knocking around for a while - completing it has been a pleasure. Love y'all and any feedback you have for me (cusses included) is entirely welcome.
xD - Thanks Dami.
Thank you.