I eat hyperboles for breakfast

Disclaimer: Due to the highly stressful and frustrating environment that NaPo necessitates, this topic will prolly very much contain some strong imagery and language. Read at own discretion. Although why anyone would want to read this is beyond me. *shrugs*


April 1

For Mesh's Challenge: The challenge was to not use the word "the" and for added fun I threw in some rhymes, no extra cost.

oh, orange-grey sun of mourning
that so encompasses my yellow sky
and blows me bone dry kisses
of bursting rays and white July
who flings me up in warm embrace
as i soak in sweat and cancer cum
and lay in wake of heartache's race
and lay in wake of dream's gone numb

dying slow i live for mourning
for mourning days as days drift past
and chasing sun i long to seize him
my hostage caught in nets i cast
desires a flask that imbibes all sense
as reality blends all i've outdone
swallowing whole strong-held pretense
of me girl-Icarus who wooed fair sun


Out-takes:

Spoiler

that so encompasses the yellow sky

the hostage caught in nets I cast....aw, shucks. This is harder than it seems.

of me dead Icarus who wooed the sun.... crap!

Thus, summer flings my great despair
out the windows of divinity
and with it too my locks of hair
stripped of all my femininity

wait...what did I just write?

Oh, the fun that is NaPo.

April 2nd:

What you failed to say to me that day,
what your ruthless eyes refuse to show
and within me strums a vein of sense,
a vibration of a feeble note
squelching, squealing
just a squeak of hope
trodden over and destroyed
by your tap-dancing goat
who dares belch in my face.

Just a quick sketch/draft. Bleh.

April 3rd:

I will die as dust
floating up to blue skies
as human nature does defy all gravitational pull.

Today I feel like dying,
nothing holds me, I'm free-floating;
heart beating in this cataclysmic womb
it elopes out of its atmospheric tomb,
slipping through the ozone
as I breathe in smoke and exhale soul
and emptiness becomes my hole
to hide secure, be much alone
crawled up tiny fetal form
without a shadow, light goes right through.
Transparency, is that my goal?

To say all, be all, do all me
as I watch these dark silhouettes
billowing through, forms I cannot touch,
those I cannot see or be or do
but want, more than anything to indulge,
inhale, and take in all this world
to fill up holes - all dimpled pores,
all empty pockets - all cricks, all crannies,
all pits all voids
desire to end all desire.

Tomorrow I might die,
whatever chance, or possibility
uprooted somewhere, I must be drifting,
searching for a past/history that is not my own
love is temporary
just a dying breed
infinitesimal misery
skirts fly up, eyes bleed dry
this is the temporal,
permanent world of mine.

1. Love it. The rhymes and rhythm have such a great sound to them. Particularly toward the end of the first stanza; it has such a lively skip! I'd suggest starting the second stanza with slow (switching dying and slow around) to make for a smoother entry. It was quite difficult to go from the soft sounds of the first straight into dying. Generally speaking though, it's lovely!

2. Not sure about this one to be honest. Uh... pass? xD

3. I love the beginning, much of the imagery from the second stanza and the ending. Everything in between could use some work but this has potential, once you've stripped away the cuttings.

April 4

An assemblage of fridge-magnets
untouched on his cloak of chilled encryption,
like the war-badges pinned upon a deceased soldier's uniform--
the unexplored life of Mr. blue collared man,
documented in a foreign language.
As adults we never did wonder, we never did ask
why the baker's pan?
or the Paris tower?
letters N through Z?
And how many mornings delivered hollow black bottles
propped aside mother's tasteless gourds?
And where did he keep his unused,
yet daily polished tools?

It all fades completely.

Little by little we turn vulnerable
and snotty-nosed.
Seems only the littlest things do stay:
the 'good job!' stickers stamped to our heads,
hungry, hungry hippo songs we sang.
The bathroom still smells of smoke,
closet still reeks of feet,
floorboards still creak of lazy.

The shoes - it's the shoes - ugly mustard, muddied,
twenty years, and we still cannot fill them,
remember the stories when we were three?
Fifteen miles, he said he trekked to feed us.
I trip upon them still, always the same damn thing,
why leave feather's boots by the front door?
Anyone's guess.
As if waiting, no
longing, no
desperate for his return,
we're hungry, dad.

We cuddle by the sofa chair, we do
and serve ramen piping hot and pass the bowl around
and eat and eat and eat and
eat until our bellies pop like papa's;
we giggle at this, we do 'til our bellies
pop like papa's,
our bellies...
papa's...

and the language flows, deciphered.

Spoiler

Err...no, I'm not lazy! I swear! I was going for a slowing down, choked sob, sudden realization, silent stillness there at the end. Yeah, let's go with that. Mrrrrr. NaPo is such a killer x_X Everything comes out rushed and gross!

Working Titles:
The Language of Fatherly Love
or
Pot-bellied Papa
or
Father's Fridge Magnets

Decisions, decisions. I need some late-night tacos.

April 5

I decided on yellow. the color of misery is yellow.
red is too romantic
green is a spring day
blue is cliche
and purple too gay
yellow is okay
hard to look at you know
sickness, malaria
and unkempt toes.

Spoiler

And now the color-symbolic meaning of my lemony avatar is revealed. Misery on a spring day? That can ONLY be NaPo >:3 Dun dun dun. too much vitamins are bad! no Flintstones gummies! no vitamin water! noooo!

So I'm kind of driving around city to city for the next 3 days Dunno if I'll have the chance to post daily on these days, but I'll definitely be writing them in my head.

So now that I'm back at home:


6.

Enter we into the rolling trees
where daffodils pine for pines
and needle the branches of experience.
We who run roads and chase skies
who've overheard the day's anew,
streamlined straight down the mountain's heart
just as buds waiting to bloom.

7.

So what if she wants to be on magazine sheets?

Go be another fine pixie printed pixel of flimsy
to eye as I skim the scanties.

Be another slenderlike limb of thin.

Another made-to-order-cookie-cutter skank
hot-pressed, read-all-about-it!
lady of rank.

See if I care

about her
rickety rawbowned reed-like gait,
or feathery, threadlike fringe-like ruff.

Intellect's...

Personality's a little flat,
but I've just enough bubbles for two.

The skinny of the matter simply be
that she could never fall for a guy like me,
so I never stop criticizing.

April 8th

First was pink ribbon skies and lit grapefruit lanterns
bright as confetti kisses sprinkling down biracial
barriers, that skin of caramel chocolate.

We bicycle race along the beach
and churn the sand for castle pickings to live
among sea stars and giggle waves of bubble songs.

Truth litters and coils beneath the planks,
whole colonies of bi-erotic jellies
and you're just as unresolved as they.

They without mouths, or brains, or heart,
and too many tentacles that sting
biology a cruel game.

But to say goodbi now that I've had a taste,
that was most unfair,
and you're just a monogamous cheater.