Words glitter out of his mouth to lick me from brain to soul. His tongue-treasures caress and cut through the well-fed neck of social okays, until the inside of my Muse can’t stop brewing tales that howl poetry. Once upon a midnight that wasn’t as dreary as it was hollow, language was a system of black and white scrawls that taught without touching, then he came (like a lie that knows fictions can be real) and made me feel words.
He spoke magic.
the wee notes…
– April is the month of fresh and wildly wondrous. It birthed me (and all my modesty), didn’t it? So, in a burst of riotous impulsiveness that would make any Aries proud, I’ve decided to celebrate the cruellest month by collecting old bones and fleshing them into something new. So, my Wicked Luvs, say hello to my first Blackout-Prose poem. Just like haibun, but the ending is a blackout. If the form speaks to your muse, I invite you to give it a go. 😉
– I skipped the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads on April 1st. Then, I read, “let’s celebrate our love of poetry… with a chaotic cacophony of words and verses!” I’ve never been any good at refusing chaos, so I accepted Marian’s invitation “to write poems about being first…”, conjured a speaker falling in lust with words for the first time, and linked it to the Tuesday Platform.
– I borrowed “Once upon a midnight dreary” from “The Raven” … Poe told me he didn’t mind. But that mad bird hasn’t stop following me… or glaring.