Ink’s Favorite Stiletto Heels Look Different to Everyone

Ink is Art’s wild child
dressed in words
for feels. She is the one
all kinds of people point at, and say,
“Such perfection” and “What a skank”
and “I could eat her up”.

– when her wilds are deepest, Ink chooses stilettos made of poetry –

While on heels to kill (or caress, if you want),
Ink reaches for different heads, hips, beliefs…
using the same words. She can stab you in the face
or carve me a world to delight in, really—
Ink touches you and me, through our own knowing,
without ever having to change shoes.

 

the wee notes…
– a Wicked Luv told me that she felt a bit lost after reading the comments others left on “The Ghosts of Amontillado Fumes”. Her interpretation matched no one else’s. She asked if I wouldn’t mind explaining the story to her. I told her I could explain what the tale meant to me, but only she could know what it meant to her. Then, I wrote this poem.
– linked it to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and to Poets United.

 

Love Magic, by Natalie Shau

 

The Ghosts of Amontillado Fumes

Tunnels are made of Poe things that go thump-thump… through the red in your bones, thump-thump… until they squeeze the tell-tale frenzy bruising the inside of your chest.

When I was swallowed by my first tunnel, I screamed. My face smacked the deck with a crunch that leaked through my ears. The pain stunk of rot and the ghosts of Amontillado fumes.

Something laughed, and shouted, “I advise you—”

“No,” I said, eyes open, knowing an unsolicited advice is as needed as an enema is erotic.

I was frightened, but I would face the dark with my Self unmolested.

 

photo by Dawn M. Miller
via

 

– for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read all the yummy tales that emerged out of this tunnel, follow this link.