Kirsty's Small Dinosaur Support Group (IFT)

[Mimic_Octopus]

***IFT - sorry I forgot to put this in the title. Pic me up!***

Well done, everybody! Looking forward to reading your threads now the madness is over.

For 2016, my inspiration (and life force) was drawn from George Takei.


Oh myyy. Here goes...

1. To safety
2. House Arrest
3. Zabreane, set down your falcon
4. Working Theory
5. No theme song
6. An absence, a branch
7. Poem in which I am a bear
8. The Crow Autopsy
9. All that is wrong
10. Instructions for the animation of one umbrella
11. Study: white dress with blood
12. Blasphemies
13. Jubokko
14. Between Clapham Junction and Denmark Hill
15. The priests exchange numbers
16. Hari-onago
17. The last time you lived here
18. Kosode no te
19. Poem in which I am the bear
20. Crow Process I
21. How does it work?
22. Crow Process II
23. Poem in which I am not a bear
24. Crow Process III
25. Ubume
26. A run at the fence
27. Panda
28. Penguin
29. Mr Full-time Panda
30. Llama
BONUS: Polar Bear

[Janet]

Oh my, indeed. I'm imagining you in your kilt. Happy NAPO!

[5th column]

What about the big dinosaurs? That's heightist

[prokopton]

Oh, man, have I got a picture for you! But I don't know if you are image friendly so I will give you a link:

Thesaurus

Have a happy NaPo!

G.

[Mimic_Octopus]

Hallo Janet, 5th and prokopton!

How are you all? Happy NaPo, Janet! Thanks for the thesaurus, prokopton! And the big dinos have had it too good for too long, 5th!

[Mimic_Octopus]

To safety

This is the approach. The winding 'don't-mind-me
-I'm-grass'. The slither. Sheep cannot see you
if you move like a river. I think. If you are
to catch one, you must be oil running fatly up
the hillside. Let's hope. Let's hope sheep are not fans
of Escher. Let's also hope for the sun. That the sun stays out.
Stays. Also that thousands of ants don't clack up,
put down their leaves and make off with the sheep
to safety. A wriggling magic carpet. Sheep
will not run from ants. This has been
proven in tests. It is we who spook them
with our lumber, our lunge into layers of wool
wrestling to grab at the hardish centre.
Bones in a dried mop, then bursting with protest.
Kicking the breeze back. Baying the ram.
Bellowing, grappling, bucking, transforming.
Landing a good one before the shears.

[Jee Leong]

Love the zigzag of the approach. The hopeful, surprise attack. Good to be reading you again.

[merelynn]

Love this line: Bones in a dried mop, then bursting with protest.

Happy NaPoMo!

[billdozer]

[Mike M]

I like "Sheep will not run from ants. This has been
proven in tests."

[kristalynn]

I like "bones in a dried mop" too.

[Mimic_Octopus]

Thanks Jee, Merelynn, Bill, Mike and Kristalynn! Looking forward to reading your threads!


House Arrest


The third guard, who arrived Tuesday, is actually quite appealing. Still some rose, some boyblush in his cheeks. I don't have a uniform thing; I'd as soon put a wire round his colleagues' necks than my snatch near their rotten mouths. I'm bored. More than anything, and wild that they have made me come to hate my home. The place I shaped with my husband, who has long since disappeared from the records. The window box we planted together I smashed last week, then swept up neatly and tipped into the bin.


They watch me shower, but I don't believe they get any pleasure in my body. I have never stretched my stomach with child, and nothing has wandered too far from its port, but my diet leaves me thin, and I've had no sunlight to tan my skin.


In how long? How long have the guards been there? If I draw the curtains, I have no grasp of night. If I draw the curtains, they will turn on the cameras.


For months they banged tin lids at intervals outside. They counted the rings around my eyes and told me that this could all stop. That the words could all stop.


In a mean little touch that reeks of the state, they cleared my bookshelves the day they rolled up. I dust them to show them I haven't given up. I listen to the birds when I want to give up. They sing of giving up, then nonsense.


I should fuck that boy when he's lonely and calm. He's never had it or he's had it once and failed. I'll wrap up my strength in a peppermint cloth and clamber astride him, whispering like his mother. Every wheezing bounce I'll jab him with the bones at the base of my ghost-pale pelvis.


This is it, I'll say. Your low. Your life now. That bruise that darkens above your thatch. Not me. Not me, all white bone and tooth. Hear this, sweet boy. That's your master's finger. Your master's finger reminding you you're his.

[avalanche]

Very spooky indeed. Sort of Ballard meets Tom Waits.....

[5th column]

I was reminded of the approach of the border collie when rounding up the sheep to pen in the first. Loved S2 of the second, especially nothing has wandered too far from its port.

[Mimic_Octopus]

Thanks avalanche and 5th! Glad it was spooky and actually yes - there may have been a touch of Babe about the sheep one. Was just talking to a friend yesterday about how sheep apparently get into everyone's poetry cookbook. Guilty.

***

Zabreane, set down your falcon

Darling, dearest, chickadee, is it not me?
My heart!
My daughter. No, I never told you.
No, you can't do this. My dreams.
My dear, think of your nerves.
You've some nerve. Your army boys.
A French platoon is around the corner.
Zhe nerr parrlay par
I don't speak for myself, but my dependents.
I too have a falcon. Invisible. Invincible.
Go on. Strike and die without ever knowing.
I am dying. It seems we are at an impasse.
Impunity. My diplomatic plates?
My head on a plate? How obedient, Zee.
All too silly. Got to stop.
Stop in the name of all that is your childhood.
Child, I believe you have the wrong Ezra.
Wrong. It is I who will falcon you!
You have no power here. My people are cannibals.
I am a coward. To kill me is bad luck.
Think of the bird, its dreams in the egg.
I am not worth the gutting, the wiping of its beak.