Lance

My offering for Kerry's challenge.

Scene 1

A country meadow (evening). Stars fill the skies over a tiny wood cabin. A beautiful woman dances naked in the meadow. In the cover of trees, our villain sits on a large stone peering over a novel with viciously calm eyes. He looks like a lion watching his soon-to-be prey at play.

He reads aloud eerily: “We need new forms of expression. We need new forms, and if we can't have them we had better have nothing.”

 

 

 

Lance

 

She loves night like she’s dancing to the rhythm of hot stars,

dressed up in sheer westward winds and a mystical sheet of dew.

Flicks lit cigarettes into a jug of gasoline

to stir a Guardi thunderstorm behind her small Picasso breasts.

 

 

I watch my stranger-lover through a hole in her defenses,

feel my long wick burn toward my black powder suspense.

Painted red, I’ve soared through hell in the draft of this old dragon

I’ve been chasing for a lifetime just to taste this spotless lamb.

 

 

She patters cool barefoot crescendos through my monotone dysfunction,

blows every whiny speaker with the lightning in her eyes.

Something beautiful must die to be fully understood.

Tonight I’ll stroke my rabid mystery on this unrequited love.

 

 

Tender dove; broken wings, flops her swansong on my palm,

no darkness-piercing screams, only a high-pitched growl.

I’ve a foul-minded vulture-calm; talons carve my tasty meal.

Yet, somehow, my deepest hungers still remain.

 

 

Brave the pain little martyr, tomorrow they’ll all see

how sweet you use to be, before you soured on my tongue.

High-strung buzz will run wild wires into every angry eye,

and they’ll all love you like I have for so long.

 

 

The ache gets stronger when it’s fed,

and my monstrous head takes over,

there’s a thousand tiny morsels just like you to be devoured.

I will shower in the claret of ten thousand clarinets,

 

 

pining precious little moans into angel-bone cathedrals.

And, they’ll hunt me like the wolfman in some monochrome memory

until they’ve crucified my face on every television screen.

Then, they'll pump my veins with poison until the Frankenstein subsides,

 

 

but I will smile through my last choke on your sacred name.

I understand, I am diseased, and I need to be erased

so you can all breathe deeper once your dark side’s slain.

Go on and lance this human boil, and let it drain.

Author's Note

Read the instructions! Add your own poetic spin on Kerry's brilliant idea. I DARE you!

http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/KERRY%27S-Sunday-Challenge-%231/13757/

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

Your own spin, huh? Well, you have certainly done that in your dark and demonic monologue of a killer. You have given voice to the predatory nature that desire can often follow - the matted under-belly, where it's all a matter of lions and lambs.

Thanks so much for entering your take on the Sunday Challenge #1.

[arbitrary jane]

'feel my long wick burn toward my black powder suspense'. that, and pretty much every other image in this... just...mm, mm, mmmm . dark and predatory, and unapologetic. your words are all force and slow-burning will. ... the'dark side of love' was never so enticing.

[Tommy]

From the rapture of playing love’s music of rapture to the rupture of a boil…There is a pleasing, yet painful release in these words…And somehow, like that feeling when the boil finally pops, I’m sickly comforted by this piece…

Great Write S.K.
RLG,
Tommy

[MuSe Ampoule]

Wickedly delicious. I love the murderous tone in here...love like this rears it's monstrous head at the peril of its love object. Love the Frankenstein and Wolfman references...just brilliant.

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

You do dark so well. The understanding of the consequences mixed in with the sharp images and contrasts fill this out fantastically.