BOOZE, inward fire of an inward frailing, yielding view
ASKEW on self, on life, all blurred by buzz, curved by thirst.
REUSE crutch, drink each day’s addled quant of time outside of time.
PAYEE: mad, sad habit. Payer: liver, or the thread through it all, or the better moments never met.
GUILT–theologians argue its inheritance, moderns banish it from
BIRTH. Yet he knows, in sober moments: his thirst is his own.
QUOTH a voice between his ears: perhaps today I will not drink, will
EVADE my urge. And then, as thirst builds, says the voice: perhaps tomorrow.
STUNG to soul’s root by thirst, he asks: is there in the
SHAPE of him, in the depths of him, any part of him that does not
QUAIL at facing life, that does not flee his day, that does not
BLURT to him: drink, drink, so this day might wane and tomorrow seem far off?
BRICK of alley wall, he stumbles, he slurs. Brick more solid than himself–
TIGHT chain, as it tightens, loosens hold on all, till self seems glassy leaned on brick.
SHOWY beauty of drink, light through amber fluid, showy burning in his throat,
ARDOR of his thirst: what substance in this show, what memories to call his own in the chambers of a reeling mind?
Category: contributors
Quail
I don’t know if you’ve heard the BLURT
of a skittering, flittering, twiddling QUAIL,
amongst the sifting shifting SHAPE
of its quail flock. Well, the sound my mind it kind of STUNG.
Insignificant
My
BIRTH, some decades ago, unheralded, dismissed,
EVADEd history books, almanacs and the like, brought no
GUILT to anyone, no disaster, or distress, no
QUOTH the priest, ‘This child is destined for great things.’
No recycling
AS KEW was to some the garden of perfection
BOOZE was my place of circumspection; me, the
PAYEE of drink’s full garbage collection, refuse none could
REUSE.
The things you learn from advertising
CHIME of the doorbell, race to the door. Only a
FLYER, oh what a bore! But here’s a surprise, a
LUMEN is more than a lightbulb’s measure, it’s
VALIDly the intestine’s inner space also. Cor!
The Cadet
CADET may mature to general,
RIPEN through life to lead, to vanquish, now eating
BREAD, drinking water, while burgeoning a
CREED in brain that will later marshal every farm and river for battle.
APRON strings? Coddling? Might they stymie this path? Would
UNDER-loving produce the martial spirit through unfulfilled desire? Or love
ALIKE confer the needed element, a belief in fighting’s duty? Is the warrior
FRUIT of nurture? Or fruit of what else?
BLASTs in battles, wounds, flesh exposed and
SKULLs laid bare in daylight may be his tutors, may school to
VAUNT defiance, to fire steadily, to not be a
LIEGE of death, even as death blossoms all around. Or: will he be a
FLYER? Win experience at altitude, shot at no less, yet on
CHIME, with bucking controls, press a button, release bombs, and fight back to base?
VALID paths of warriors now outstrip bronze age Hector or Achilles. Yet, the shimmery
LUMEN of glory still entices. Death still eats its tithe before time.
Note: my first four day effort (I’ve had a few threes). Trying for coherence across 16 random words imposes its own fascinations.
Lament of the old soldier
BREED your sons to be cast in the role of
CADET in whatever warfare service is your
CREED. Let them stand as men and
RIPEN. Pray the fruit won’t fail to seed.
Turbo Needs To Go
ANNOY me no more! I shall
ELECT a new word in your place, less
STALE, less ubiquitious, less you,
TURBO.
Note: of all the words to have the highest frequency in DQP, turbo ought not be it: 6 times as of yesterday.
Politician
ANNOY me at your peril. I’m your legally
ELECTed representative. No matter how
STALE my policies, or my views, my
TURBO-charged charisma will see me through.
Love your enemy
I
CHAFE at unfair treatment from the world’s biggest
CHEAT. I’d like to see him dropped into the world’s biggest
GULLY! Except that, as a believer in the
RISEN Christ, it’s better to heap coals on his head instead!
[If I had another line, I might have added ‘LOL’…