Monday, January 10, 2011

fff#36: griot's 1st ballad

a little ditty from my main man, griot, for flash fiction friday #36 (inclusion)trigger: paw poor pore pour; if he gonna be in this musical, we need to see how many storytelling styles he have, ent?
big-up legreat for confirming my vibes re:poem, even if this not aiming for epic, per se...walk good.

gallifrey sports+rec. club,
we usual spot, a bes’ pub,
we limin’ straight from friday afternoon.
not 1-man-jack here scoring
so barman keep on pouring,
doh study it, none-a-we driving soon.
we talkin’ shit, we pongin’
normal scene, jes picongin’
frank face swell up with an infected pore;
he looking for a excuse
to get he gyal to still roaks
while he left jaw look like a open sore.
we know he eh go get none
but then, he have a reason
while none-a-we sitting here could say so...
now me eh no poor-me-one,
is jus’ that is dry season
for quality, and i doh deal in hos.
if tings was looking desperate,
i know where i could get dat,
ting is, dry season hit empress+whore;
times hard but if i paying,
take wha’ it is i saying:
i want to shake she hand and not a paw!


Anonymous brent said...

But then it was so windy we sought
a hissing grove
to plant the x’s
beneath your dress
to trace the thighs
back into existence
to expose our legs to sprawl

I believed in the underside of leaves
when the wind rifled through them
and the grove became silver

There’s muscle under bone
or undertow in the veins
and the home
I built of desperateness
is out of reach

The beach gulls tore
into its rafters
and I got so drunk then
off the silos of my rib cage
the stores of wine that poured
from my bruised liver
That I knew not why the rib caged
bird would paw at the door
of my breast
wanting out

then wanting in again
like my breath
like the salt breeze
my pores opened to receive
beneath a poor man’s roof
of chicken feather thatch

I fell like a ship
into the rafters with a splash

of birds wings
i took a splinter
out of my breast

to never wander
to make a nest
of stray
bullets and newspaper clips

i’m coming back from the war
but the rim of the bay rhymes with

he grabbed me by the throat
and with his other hand
grabbed his crotch

was i spanish
or white

like his grandfather
who was whiter
in the dark

lighter than an archipelago
of glass shards

finish the poem he said

3:47 pm  

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