This poem is made up of a sequence of overlapping sentences.
Please don’t kill my love
—this time
—-is better than
——the rest
——–of them were not like
———-her
————hair is soft her eyes are
————–blue
—————-I’d be if she should die

Poems, stories, and scraps — both new and old. [☆ = best stuff] [CLASSIC = written long ago]
This poem is made up of a sequence of overlapping sentences.
Please don’t kill my love
—this time
—-is better than
——the rest
——–of them were not like
———-her
————hair is soft her eyes are
————–blue
—————-I’d be if she should die
unfinished, and not at all politically correct — but it makes me laugh
I left in such a hurry
At least I thought I did
I think she didn’t even seem to mind
Perhaps she didn’t notice
Perhaps I never left
The mystery — when both of you are blind
One day I brought her flowers
At least I thought I did
She thanked me with a kind word and a kiss
Here’s an idea for a novel/screenplay/whatever. It could be light (a romantic comedy), or it could be very dark (psycho/horror) — depending on the character development and ending. It may have been done before and, in fact, I have a very similar (but specific) storyline that’s I’ve been mulling over for ages, which I’ll write about at the end of this entry.
The plot is this – a woman somehow accidentally finds herself at another woman’s house and gets mistaken for the occupant. Maybe she’s an acquaintance of the woman who lives there, is dropping something off at the front door, and a handsome stranger walks up, assumes she is the resident, and explains that he has some reason to spend time with the resident whom he’s never met or at least hasn’t seen in ages (important point). Maybe he’s from out of town (a former childhood friend, for example) and thought that he could crash at the house, or maybe he’s the plumber (or the tennis pro, or whatever). The visiting woman (who, remember, is not the resident) is instantly smitten with the handsome stranger and decides on the spot to pretend she is the resident to allow her to spend time with the man.
Of course, there is the usual silliness where she almost gets found out again and again but circumstances allow her to continue her charade. Maybe he helps her break into the house because she has ‘forgotten her key’. Of course, she doesn’t really know her way around the inside of the house. Maybe he brings up an old childhood memory, which of course she doesn’t know, and she comically bluffs her way through it.
Anyway, the plot progresses, romance blooms, and the real resident is scheduled to return – so there is tension and urgency because the pretending woman will be uncovered.
Here’s where the story potentially diverges: (1) in the romantic comedy version, the stranger realizes just in time that the pretending woman is not who he thought, but that he loves her anyway and all ends happy; (2) in the horror version, the pretending woman intercepts the arriving resident, kills her, and the couple moves forward in a relationship based on a huge, ghastly lie. It would be interesting for this to be a film, secretly released at the same time with these two very different endings. The first 90% of the movie would be the same, but half of the moviegoers would walk out smiling having seen a romantic comedy, and the other half would be devastated when the heroine turns out to be a psycho. Hilarious.
My long-standing similar plotline is for an up-and-coming author to really admire a reclusive established author’s work. The young author would analyze, study, and practice duplicating the writings of the older author – to the point that, over time, he could write in a manner that was indistinguishable from the older author. Maybe eventually they both in parallel write a short story and it turns out nearly word-for-word the same. The young author’s may even be better. Finally, the young author (still well intentioned) goes to the old author’s house to bond and share his excitement, but the conversation goes bad (as they often do with recluses) and the young author kills the old author in a rage. He then disposes of the body and seamlessly assumes the old author’s life — even releasing new books that, to the public, seem exactly what they expect. (Alternately, these guys could be artists or musicians.)
My son thinks this may be the best thing I’ve written.
She started by sending me letters
Hundreds a day without fail
The postman developed a hernia
So I had them cut off my mail
Next she’d call me at noontime
My ear wore away to the bone
For hours and hours she’d ramble and talk
So I had them cut off my phone
Finally she’d come to my bedroom
We’d have so much sex I’d get sick
To dress was a chore (I had gotten so sore)
So I had them cut off… the end of this poem
She embraced me with her heart of stone
She engulfed me with her web of lies
She echoed thoughts that were her own
Soon the sparrow flies
I have decided to start sprinkling in some of my existing writings [=’classic’] which are generally decades old — and some of which I don’t even remember writing. I make an occasional wording tweak if it helps. These bits are probably no better or worse than my new original writings, but over time it will be nice to have most/all of my shtuff in one place (here).
Everything in this blog that doesn’t say ‘classic’ is brand new, written the day of posting.
The single clear ting of a tiny glass bell.
The snort of the ferryman racing to Hell.
By allowing the current to propel the canoe, Ayo progressed silently toward Kiraigu, the Sacred City. The stillness was broken only by the occasional dip of his paddle to maintain the center of the stream. He had long grown accustomed to the obscured view from the ceremonial head covering that he wore, and he no longer worried that the traditional body paint, carefully applied by moonlight, was bleeding together from the sweat running down his body even at this early hour.
The longa berries had given Ayo both a calmness and a heightened sensitivity. He prayed that he had eaten them at the right moment to ensure their full effect once he reached the temple. His sense of time was confused — it seemed both that he had just begun the water journey, and that he had been drifting for days in some eternal twilight. He seemed able to view himself from above as if in a dream, but could still clearly hear the staccato tinkling of the current in his ears, and could feel the paddle in his hands and the night air on his damp body.
Ayo rounded a sharp bend which required his full attention to avoid contacting the far bank. When he next looked up, he could see the city before him and to the left, its outline visible in the dim pre-dawn glow. He quickly paddled toward the city, pulling with all his strength, knowing from legend that it took a strong man to reach the entrance before the current carried him past, and that missing the entrance, and having to find another way into the city, was a bad omen that cast the power of the entire journey into doubt.
Sprung up overnight
The scattered monoliths
Turn passionless faces to the dying sun
They bear their silent burden
And blindly endure
Their relentless march toward ruin
Stanley is our one-year-old male cat who is gaining competence at killing birds.
Stanley eyes his prey in the scrubby grass
Waiting patiently/eagerly for a fatal moment of distraction
It comes, and so does he
Shall we play?