Category: MikeCrowl

BLACK thoughts prickle me like
CACTI. Once again the teacher’s thrown the
CHALK – and missed. I ask you, is it
CIVIL to be his daily target? Is there insurance
COVER for a kid so picked upon, abused? The
CYNIC in me sees this happening till the end of term, his
GREEDy target set at a chalk a day; a kind of
GRUEL he prefers to healthier stew. Should I
INFER he sees me as the white knight at the
JOUST – he the black and surly knight, of course.
MARRY! his lance is long but blunt, loose like the
METER of this verse, not worth the page it’s penned upon nor the
PENNY possibly paid for it. Like
RAYON, it’s weak when wet, and even
RECUT, these lines would still swillow as a
RIPER fruit will slobber over fingers, as a
RIVER slid from moorings spreads in a
SAPPY stream invading fields, streets, houses.
SCRAM! you dull and diffident lines, you
STALE and dribbling anti-pentameters that
STALL like undercharged EVs, set teeth on edge with similes too
SWEET, that let the excess of metaphorical verbiage
TOWER above all sense, run off the rails like a wayward
TRAIN.          

[For once it’s not me catching up…!]

MAGIC music brought alive the hop-step
POLKA, but here these Poles were violent. A
SPURT of blood startled the dancers: someone
THREW a Szabla at the man who stole his girlfriend.  

BINGO! the would-be
CROOK with greased and
CURLY hair, aims his fist.
DRYLY the captain knows he’s champion in any
FIGHT; this captain of the
FINAL trip for the day on the
FJORD ferry, who stands aloof. The deck being wet, the youth slips and down the
HATCH he goes. The deck was somewhat
MOSSY, the captain admits to himself, smells somewhat
MUSKY, as of a deer in rut, or perhaps it has the
NUTTY scent of a jar not emptied from the pantry in a decade. The boy, below,
REACTs dully, like a performer in a dull
REVUE, or the dull
REVUE itself. He has no get up and go, and now he smells
RIPER than he did before, like a
ROWER out at sea too long, or a dancer doing the
RUMBA for four hours one night. He is merely seen as a
SERIF attached to some stronger part of a letter; he
SLUMPs where he stands and
SNIPEs at the captain imperturbable. He totters, rotates, this tourist-child, as a
TORUS does (I think – the word is new to me) and the
TWANG in his Aussie
VOICE is mostly a blur. This day is his
WORST.

[This is getting ridiculous: six days gone and no quordle poems done. Hence there are 24 words in the poem above.]

On the
JETTY they’re selling tubs of
PESTO, deep in its green as a
PRUNE is deep in red and brown, or a
TAWNY lion yellow in its yellowness.  

The
BOOTH announces, ‘Former Welterweight
CHAMP.’ His wife, a few feet away, in heels that
CLACK across the weatherworn boards,
PIVOTs as I say, ‘Done with the boxing then?’

A
BRIEF glance, under heaviest eyebrows. A
LEASH, self-imposed, holds back comments. His
BASAL mode’s controlled; he keeps himself from
SMEARs against his former occupation.

But
BLUNT is his wife’s middle name. No
SHADY subtleties of speech here. She
STOKEs the constant fires of anger: one
VOWEL is enough to tell me her temper.

The
ALLOY of ferocious mixed with self-restraint, I guess, gives
FIBRE to their marriage, keeps them sane. He’s
FORTY, at a guess, but her age I can’t gauge. The
PAINT of makeup could hide anything from twenty-five to fifty.   

BRASS doorknobs glimmer; cheap
PASTE jewellery dims; Miss
PIXIE’s homelife narrows as
WIDER becomes her frame.  

The

FILTH in the first
FOLIO that left everyone
STONY-faced, has been excised in the second without a
TRACE.

APRON-GUILT makes PARTY STALE

DEIGN FLUNG at HARDY, SAUCE

BARGE CARGO was (yuk!) MELON-PATTY

BRI BED AUNTI ON (I C NORT) Honeymoon.

A TOLL at the gates of the once-magnificent
MANOR relies on the munificence of those with
MONEY. The sign mentioning the toll makes no
OVERT demands, relying simply on the visitor
RALLYing his or her generosity, not being
REPELled at the thought of digging in their pockets, having
SENSE enough to realise that the building, no longer in its
ZESTY heyday, will crumble without their support.

Me
CADDY has most unobligingly gone orf for his hols to the
CAPE – Cod, that is. Has abandoned me, and has left me throat
DRIER, this month, than I remember being since I was introduced to the
TANGO, my Argentinian wife-to-be, and cocktails, all in one blighted evening.

We
CRAWL from birth to toddlering, and – it seems to be an
EDICT – from late old age to death, though every
FIBRE in the ancient body hankers not to
GRIND from Y to Z, behind a walking frame, as the skin
MOULTs, leaving its traces hither, thither and yon, to be
QUASHED by upright bodies, blissfully unaware that they
SMITE carelessly what was recently life, like that hooded
STALKer with the scythe.