Thursday, February 5, 2009
Write In a Pattern (But Not a Metrical Poem)
Jared looked up; a flock of geese was flying overhead. They looked like the fork of a snake’s slithery tongue. There was a gray fleck of cloud in the sky. Suddenly, he felt a flick on his shoulder, his sister. She gave him more flak than even his nagging father. They were like a folk song, making words awkwardly beautiful. He couldn’t understand why Frank saw any merit in her. He was in a funk because of their row yesterday. It hadn’t been a freak thing, just another silly argument. It was about the frock his sister wore to school.
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An entry worthy of Peter Falk reading it. Perhaps it was a note sent to Columbo by a fink. I could imagine it as a verse to an absurdist filk, as well. I'm only guessing as to your pattern, here, it's frickin' inscrutable. Not even King Fulk could decipher it. To be frank, I just enjoy all the fricatives.
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