Kirsty's Small Dinosaur Support Group (IFT)

[Bench]

Properly visceral stuff. Especially liked "I'll jab him with the bones at the base of my ghost-pale pelvis". Zabreane is dark, about an African or Arabian border dispute may be, or an angry man at a checkpoint. Good going

[Mimic_Octopus]

Working Theory

i.
An admin assistant cannot be assassinated. They are not
important enough. For certain, they must have
as bare strut a Wikipedia entry.
Else where are we?

ii.
No-one will say of the admin assistant
that they were notoriously difficult.
That they pissed off a host of powerful people.
That anyone had cause or motive.

iii.
The god of admin assistants has twelve hands.
She smiles and her mouth is full of pens.
She must stay an hour later every night
and this is why the sun moves back.

iv.
When the snow came and my friends made snowmen
I made a snow admin assistant.
She let the phone ring and ring.
I let her melt.

v.
A girl is led out at dawn to the rock.
She is marked with a cross of fluorescent ink.
A man pours coffee in her hair.
She will smell that way forever.

[Julie]

"you must be oil running fatly up the hillside"!

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


"If I draw the curtains, I have no grasp of night."

"They sing of giving up, then nonsense."

"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."!!!

"She smiles and her mouth is full of pens.
She must stay an hour later every night
and this is why the sun moves back."
.
So much good stuff. I had a bad administrative assistant once. She made me want to quit my job most of the time, and quit life the rest.

[Dani B]

Like a series of koans; the fifth is quite eerie. I am puzzled and intrigued, which feels proper -d

[JFN]

Kirsty, Let's hope sheep are not fans / of Escher is much fun indeed. I like the windiness of this, and the description of Bones in a dried mop is great.

House Arrest is most certainly arresting. To me the strongest parts are paragraphs 2, 6 & 7, but to be honest the whole narrative is compelling.

I'm not sure I fully understand Zabreane... if I'm honest. I'll try reading it again in a few days time. The final line is great though.

iv and v are stand out for me in Working Theory, iv for the effectiveness of its humour, v for the effectiveness of its horror.

Will be back soon.

John

[Mimic_Octopus]

Julie, Dani and JFN, thank you so, so much for reading and commenting. I'm glad you found the admin assistant disturbing. I'm going to head on over to your threads tomorrow for a treat, no doubt.

No theme song

When we go to Graceland for good not just to pay respects and get a souvenir condom of his ‘58 Isana Jazz but to live to be his family behind those funky gates will you tell him I broke your LP of A Date With please don’t I didn’t mean to though it sure looked like I tried to when we go though listen really when we say OK now this is it and politely give notice and tidy our desks and sell the laser printers can we hug him will he be all fat like Vegas maybe he will sing about hunks of fire when we get there can we piss anywhere because we’re his real people oh my former father because now that is him do you really believe me about the record because try I try to be good so much I also I never can we be his tiger no yes no why what is it what is it

[5th column]

Your thread has left me scratching my head on a few occasions, I admit, but it's also hugely fun to read and some parts to re-read. The latest is no exception. The pens, the mouthful of pens, you made me spit out my coffee...

[Mimic_Octopus]

An absence, a branch


Due to their black, it's hard to recognise [a crow’s] eyes from the rest of the body at one look. In other words, it's as if the bird doesn't have its eyes. That's how our character for crows 烏 lacks one stroke from the bird character 鳥.
Maki_00000, via http://www.language-exchanges.org/


Someone has cut a crow-hole in the sky.
A pupil is not a black dot in your eye but a hole.
The sky does not contract in on the crow.
Does not shrink the crow-shape or expand it
like the iris, tidal, laps in on the gap
to let in light or stopper out light.
All light is slowed and claimed by the crow
like some endangered delicacy,
for the blueish gloss on its outmost feathers.
For the droplet of snow in its eye.

[Mimic_Octopus]

Poem in which I am a bear

“I did not mean to eat the bee but I definitely ate the bee.”
(@a_single_bear, Twitter)

Me, tell me what the world is like?
A field I am only visiting.
Are there trees?
There are none. No climbpath. No sap.
Do I wear gloves?
Always. My hands are always
(Really?)
Let me finish: furred and clumsy.
And what is this dancing on my tongue?
Whirring, twitching mechanism.
Did I kill it?
It was dying from painted corn.
May I bury it?
Clog-claws, mud on pads.
Do I leave it as small yellow spit?
I will bury it.
And now?
And now the sun is being eaten.
Will I have to leave?
There is a trodden path.
Oh, that is for me?
It is made by every foot.
And I go?
Like the bee undertooth, you go.

[Arlene]

Starting backwards, bear of bee, is the bear going to die? Do you know? Eating a bee must sting. Fun to read. An Absence, A Branch -- lovely image of the crow-hole and light, want to quote the last four lines, emphasizing excellence. Love admin asst poem, twelve hands, mouth full of pens.

[Mimic_Octopus]

The Crow Autopsy

Why are we gathered?
A crow has stopped.

He does not fly?
He does not fly.

Then he is dead?
He does not peck or call.

Who he with death?
It is this crow here.

Who did the death?
It was not a crow.

Who did the death?
A blunt, fast force.

A falling tree?
But forwards, growling.

Will more come?
More may. We wait.

Stay we together?
Aye. Eyes, all. Eyes.

[Mimic_Octopus]

All that is wrong


When they leave, she is dropped down a throat,
spilled across shirtfront and rubbed with stale cloth,
starker with each frot.

Is this the night school? Was there learning
left here in a pouch to be found?
Traps? Chevaux de frise to her charge?

This talk of conquest. Border breaks.
Some days it is the world won
to do up every button, to surface.

Five paces. A forkful more.
A stiff jaw and legs wound brutally tight.
Moaning no, tendon rubbing on skin.

Great gulpfuls of summer. An empty stomach.
Lawn beyond law and unwashable plates.
Weeds in the herb patch.

The worms that mulch. Thank you.
Cat that comforts. Thank you.
Onward, and thanks to every molecule.

[Donner]

Hi, Kirsty,

Yours is one of the NaPo threads that requires several readings before I feel I can comment adequately. (The one I did get the first time through was "Working Theory", probably because I'm either a secretary or an Office Manager, depending whom I'm talking to and I always somehow end up with pens from work in my purse. Like, 4 of them. Which I return. )

I think my favorite so far is "The Crow Autopsy", mainly for selfish reasons. I'm a lover of crows and their intelligence, their fidelity and their rituals, such as their practice of gathering around their dead. I take the poem to be from the crow's viewpoint, N being an older crow teaching a younger one about death and the dangers that need to be watched for.

Who did the death?
A blunt, fast force.

A falling tree?
But forwards, growling.

Will more come?
More may. We wait.

Stay we together?
Aye. Eyes, all. Eyes.

Donner

[5th column]

All That is Wrong and Crow Autopsy stand out for me. The construction of both is sound and there are some great lines / Stanzas, not least of which is This talk of conquest. Border breaks. / Some days it is the world won / to do up every button, to surface.

Great thread.

[Mimic_Octopus]

Thanks Donner! I'll try and give you a break and write some things that are less enigmatic. Look forward to reading your thread!

***

Instructions for the animation of one umbrella

Set your alarm clock for one hundred years’ time. Less if the umbrella is older. Ensure it gives good service. Start thinking of it as a them. Daily, stroke from the nubble in the centre of the canopy right out to the wingbones of their spokes. Any reaction shows the work is worthwhile. On rainy days, do not huddle inside. Umbrellas long to be played with by rain. Find someone to love. Share your umbrella. Show the umbrella a portion of your love. Show them love, but do not let them replace your lovers. They are hard to throw out once they have sat in your heart. You may need to throw them out, and harden to the sadness of their broken body in the can for collection. But they are often caught by bad winds. Become vicious, resentful, sharp through the canvas. May shut of their own accord, biting your hand, or blow inside out while flirting with the wind. Hold hard the handle and take it out in storms, closed, as a threat for ill behaviour. Be aware this may all be for nothing. That it may fly away or wear out. Be prepared for this. Be prepared to start again. On your deathbed, should the century be incomplete, tell your children one of them must carry on your work.

Five days of rain
dancing on my umbrella
dancing the folds of my umbrella.