Thicken Your Skin with Ink

Her lips are twin corpses
wearing annihilation as gloss.

Her word-rot tries to kiss,
bite, eat, kick… everyone. Don’t run,
love, don’t alter your plot.

Thicken your skin with ink, armor your-Self
with humor (“Yes!” roar flesh-ripping laughter),

upcycle your anger, turn dreadful
into a miracle garden, bloom
magic with happy teeth,

keep being you.


the wee notes (on steroids):
– today, my Muse is hosting the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Since she is a masochist who enjoys a “good” challenge, the mad thing invited us to choose 3 to 13 (nonconsecutive) words out of the quote below, then use said words to craft a poem that is a deliberate celebration of metaphor. It’s Friday, as you might have noticed *cough*, so my Muse dearest could not be talked out of flying over to Hedgewitch’s. The moment I opened my mouth to point out that using 13 words in a poem of only 55 words might not be as easy as it sounds, she started screeching like a chalkboard that has recently learned just how torturous her howling can be. Yes, she won. But worry not about my dignity, I took my revenge by waiting until the very last minute to write my contribution. And, oh, you’ve no idea how much that irritates her.

– the 13 words I… I mean, the Muse, chose: corpses, annihilation, word, alter, ink, humor, flesh, laughter, anger, dreadful, miracle, magic, happy

– and the quote, from Diane Setterfield’s The Thirteenth Tale (one of my favorite novels): “People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.”