autumn destruction senseless selfish bitterness we have not advanced
like a flapjack bought at a highway store
undressed from plastic on a flat top
and ejected at a reststop
I found freedom to cruise
crushed by second hand truckers on table tops
numbed by the candy I had to suck
leftover from someone’s pockets
I had to choose
barefoot on route 66
if I make it to the west coast
before 5 o’clock
you can have my ass
San Fransisco’s Golden Gate
on the back of a Harley Davidson
or maybe it was all a dream
flushed down a toilet at the rest stop
another coffee at the counter
another evening wasted almost masturbated
in this small town that’s just a dot
on a map at an old egg yoke pitstop
Ye gods, what a difficult prompt, that others will as usual take in their stride! I saw some beautiful haiku in yesterday’s prompt, here (Maniparna), here (Gillena) and here (Celestine). But also here (Ese) and many more…
‘Photographing’ seems tough. What clever imagery could we evoke? Striking the right balance in a haiku is difficult, and I think I’m going to find a vintage Japanese photograph to sprinkle with words.
a dream makes me
Everyone remembers rain. I think rugby players have a special affinity for rain, when it is pouring down, and you are losing by 2, or 3 points, with as many minutes left to play. Chests are heaving after a break in play, trying, fighting to get oxygen and energy in, and vapour is rising in steam.
The rain pours, the drops skirting eyelids, sliding on the vaseline smeared there if you are a forward, part of the pack, but not noticed anyway. The captain making a secret signal, ball in hand, ready to take the free kick, the referee about to blow his whistle for the kick to be taken, but checking his watch anyway.
The ball about to be tapped, then thrown like a bullet into my chest, where I must grab it and hold, and be pushed over the line to get those 5 points. Must not fumble that slippery ball, or tumble when my team hit from behind to shove me over the line, as the other team line up, ready.
Then my team mate sees the butterfly in our path. Breaks away, scoops it up carefully, runs to a woman with an umbrella, watching, puts the butterfly on her arm. The referee looks on, bemused, then blows the whistle. The ball slaps into my sodden chest in the pouring rain. We charge, hit, hard.
But the butterfly is safe.
in the monsoon
one raindrop lands
on a butterfly
I learnt something that day. And life goes on.
If Jesus was a woman
and not a lesbian
Would there still be feminism?
Would religion start to make sense to me?
And would she have worn a bra?
Could she possibly have had
Along with line in fine lingerie
for those seeking salvation
in the arms of a woman
Would her twelve disciples have been women too?
Would they have cross-dressed
or simply just had more style?
And would she have hung from the cross?
And would Peterina
Upon arrival in Rome
have been hung upside down?
If the Buddha had been all-woman
would she have sat under tree so long?
If Stalin had been a little girl
from somewhere deep in the Urals
would the gulags have functioned so well?
Its only Mick Jagger
that would remain the same
if history could be changed
To be herstory
And of course me
I would be une Lesbienne
-as I secretly am
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, my prize, something I designed, a likeness of one of my……previous…guests, here at my castle, by my own hands. Igor! The covering! Unveil it!”
“Uh, Count Dracula, sir, you’ll be wanting some rest, its getting early…”
“Igor! The cloth, pull! Oh I shall do it myself!”
A stunned silence from the Count meets the ripple of applause from selected guests.
“Igor! IGOR! Where is her flowing hair? How has your face been chiselled behind her like that?”
“I thought you might like it, Count, as a memento..me holding her head, ready for you to…”
“Igor! Shut-up, imbecile!”
Click on the photo to go to Friday Fictioneers – 100 word stories
Thank you to Claire Fuller for the Sculpture and photo