Today’s poetry 201 challenge has helpfully allowed my writer’s brain to head home, in creating some prose poetry. The subject is ‘fingers’ and the challenge was to include some assonance in the piece…
Her blood boiled upwards as my ears rang with her rage. The words abandoned their sensical path, instead bulging the brain as indecipherable mush. I couldn’t hope to untangle it. It would reside, for evermore, swelling, sneering at my sanity and tormenting it into submission.
As her back faced forwards I took the wrath and exhausted it in the only way my schoolgirl mind could conceive. A hidden gesture paraded with such force that it would spend my frustration.
Forearm clenched, bicep tensed, I paraded a pugnacious middle finger at the back of her straight black bob.
She would think she had won.
I think this photo fits this week’s photo challenge rather nicely too…
Overheard conversations and foreshadowing…
The audience is prompted in gooey noises of sentiment as she talks about her incessant will to love him. A studio light sparks and a less rehearsed reaction sounds across the space. It flickers amidst raining fire as the crew run to its aid and plummet the room into darkness.
Mere moments pass and the set is saturated with white light. As the pupils of the audience constrict, her face is poured with unforgiving illumination. Her eyelids are painted with thick turquoise, the powder spreads unevenly from her eyelashes to her brows. Through bulbous lips she chatters of a lifelong search. Painted in a clashing shade of scarlet, they sit shiny and gloopy atop of three chins, they jabber of finally finding the one. The audience coos. We are expected to ingest this, the greatest of loves. Her nails are gnawed with remnants of red. She could have washed her hair on account of the TV appearance.
The other woman struts onto stage ready for a face-off. Like hyenas they scrap for his infatuation. They reveal adulterous moments, back-alley liaisons, untold truths. Their painted faces start to fall as they wrestle to be his only.
Behind a marbled screen his gormless mug is indulged in the moment. His mouth sits open in horror but his eyes are fed by the deed. He feeds on a gluttonous diet of their misery.