Dark side

Sammi’s Weekender #274 (opera)

Click this opera thingy to find links to more operatic writings

For Opera’s Sake

Poets find inspiration in
music
I do,
not opera
or classical,
Whitman did.
Likewise Nazim Hikmet,
Dickenson, Bishop, Doty,
and the barstool bard,
Charles Bukowski
who wrote,
“To The Whore Who
Took My Poems,” and
said, “opera sickened me.”

A romantic, Hank was,
by some accounting,
a perv, drunk, dreamer,
a dirty old man
and misogynist
(he claimed not)—a lover
of women and classical
music.
Buk’s been saluted by
diversity like
U2, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Nirvana, Bush, the Cars,
and Concrete Blonde.

I’ve been
accused
of being mused by
Bukowski
and his oeuvre.

Look both ways for the sin of admiring the imperfect,
the toil of the briar patch, the desire for love and passion.
Mind the gaps lest we stumble into the First Self-righteous Church.

This is the poem, “To The Whore Who Took My Poems” … done operatically (a bit risqué). My apologies if this youtube does not work for you.

Friday Fictioneers for August 26th 2022

Our unrivaled and swimmingly marvelous maven and Friday Fictioneering mistress, Rochelle, has paired up with Brenda Cox to serve up a stinging photo with food, working women, and a mad mugging man to inspire us to fictionalize 100-word stories mused from the minds and memories of twisted fibbers.

If you want to get jiggy with the ways and where-how’s of this Micro-, flash-fictioning adventure, click on Brenda’s photo for a sit down at Rochelle’s blog to check the menu for rules regarding ingredients.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox

 

Genre: Derivative Fiction
Title: Barbecue Stir-Fry with Tomatoes
Word Count: 100

***

Frank sat; arms crossed. “These are all women. Why’d you bring me here?”

Ruth smiled at Idgie. “They’ve excellent fried green tomatoes. The stir-fry is to die for.”

Frank mumbled, “These look like illegals. I’m calling Sheriff Smoot.”

Ruth nodded to Idgie and touched her neck.

Idgie waved her arm.

Frank felt a sharp sting. “Damnit! A bee. Give me Benadryl.”

Ruth handed him the bottle. Frank drank then collapsed. A small crowd gathered, then Frank was gone.

Idgie hugged Ruth. “Come back tomorrow, Love. We have fresh meat to barbeque.”

Ruth touched Idgie’s cheek. “I’ll always love you, Bee-charmer.”

***

Look both ways when seeking friendship and love.
Mind the gaps and take karma into account when life hands you Towanda’s rules.

This story is derived from, and inspired by, the book and movie, Fried Green Tomatoes.

Click on Idgie and Ruth at the Whistle Stop Café to truck on over and read other deep-fried stories.

If you’re unfamiliar with the 1991 movie, here’s a trailer to tempt you.

Sammi’s Weekender #272 (dazzling)

Click this pic for more dazzling 53-word wonders.

Candled Darkness

She dazzled—
blindingly brilliant.

I was humbled, dim and dull—
overwhelmed by sadness and shame.

Yet, in her glitter and gleam,
She loved my blackened heart,

kept me close, when other
men were blinded by her glare

She smiled.

Au contraire, mon amour.
Darker nights make brighter stars,
the moon shines even more.

Look both ways but listen with an open heart.
Mind the gaps for that’s where stars shine brightest.

Caption me.

Friday Fictioneers for August 5th 2022

Her Majesty, Mistress Rochelle took up with the artful British Lady, Sandra Crook, and her collection of local history castle photographic art to inspire us to fictionalize a bit of Brit history and fantasy. If we surpass Her Ladyship’s 100-word limit, we’re forgiven (fingers-crossed) but sent to the castle dungeons where a Scot vampire Count will teach us to painfully count—one number at a time.

To join with this British invasion simply point to the below photo and click, from whence you’ll magically be transported to the wonderful purple swimmingly world of Rochelle’s blog where you’ll be provided proper guidance and told how to mind your manners.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Genre: Speculative Travel Fiction
Title: Castle Horror Picture Show
Word Count: 100

***

Elizabeth tugged the wheel, “Left side. We meet up there at midnight.”

I asked, “Why join more judgmental, malcontent, freak poets?”

She pointed, “That’s our B&B. It’s a cover coven with vampire poets. Ancestry shows DNA matches.”

“You’re a hedge witch!”

“Be quiet!”

Later, I heard church bells as we walked into the ancient castle ruins.

A male voice, “Mistress Lizzy, is it? Douse them torches. Remove your clothes. Join us for sexy dungeon dancing. William must be bit.”

I felt a prick in my neck. Elizabeth laughed and danced away with a vampire named Charles. We were home free.

***

Look both ways and don’t think love conquers all.
Mind the gaps for mind control nips
and put some garlic powder on your tasty neck.

***

Click on Dr. Frank-N-Furter “if you want something visual that’s not too abysmal” and more hot lit micro-fiction “from Transylvania, ha ha.”

***

If you’re unfamiliar with the movie, Rocky Horror Picture Show, here is a trailer.

Monday’s Rune: This Bad

Hopeless is bad enough,
often said with sarcastic humor.
But helpless is feeling
a deeper truth.

We believe we can,
and maybe
for a time,
we can, and
we do. But we are
being watched.

An inevitable
universal reality
brings truth to
the rarity of existence.

Entropic inevitability,
be it a mayfly, a giant star;
you, or me, degradation
into disorganized chaos
and randomness rules.

As everything changes,
nothing ever changes.

Look both ways into the abyss of eternity.
It is the way, the only way.
Mind the gaps and appreciate the flashes of life.

Monday’s Rune: Hank’s Wine Whine

Bukowski had six cats,
a horrific history,
(eventually) a (2nd) wife, a daughter,
and hated his father,
maybe mother too.
he smoked cigarettes
and drank wine
while writing poems
until the wee hours
while
listening
to classical music.

He drove an old VW bug
and was attractively
unattractive.

Playing the horses
was more than
a gambling vice,
it was an avocation.

You say so what?
I say, you don’t know?

Look both ways when you need a poem to post on a Monday.
Mind the gaps cuz yer on yer own dude.

Henry Charles Bukowski: a “laureate of American lowlife.” Time (magazine).

Sammi’s Weekender #264 (Picturesque)

Click on the graphic for more 54-word wonders and Sammi’s blog page.

Damn Reality

Here I go again reading
Bukowski’s clear vision voice
poems lacking picturesque pastoral principles,
with plainly different aesthetic dispositions
of attitude nobody loves.

We know that deep inside,
his way is part of us;
part of him, hides in us.
How many ways
can we paint the same picture,
or tell the same story.

Look both ways reading anyone’s poems.
Mind the gaps hiding deep within when writing your own.

Monday’s Rune: A Metamorphosis

When does it happen, if it happens at all?
The innocent child becomes a troubled teen,
Then a vicious young man with an M-sixteen,
Or a rivetted young woman focused on his fall.

Is this the formula of a coming dystopia?
Is the excitement of the fight so much greater
Than desire for tranquility and gods’ opium?
Is power over people the dark masturbator?

Some change. Many don’t. Over time
We all morph and grow to some degree
For better or worse, but will I ever be free?
Human life’s permanent paradox of paradigm.

Look both ways with conscious contemplation of then and now.
Mind the gaps for lessons of fortitude,
not the comfort of fear.
You can only die once, Bukowski notwithstanding.

dVerse – Prosery:“How many more will it take?

This Prosery is written around a line/sentence from a Facebook poem called, Notes on Uvalde. The dVerse line chosen by Lisa was, “These are the things they don’t tell us.”

To read other prose responses, click HERE.

My First Experience

I was barely 20 years of age and newly married when on August 1st, 1966, Charles Whitman, after killing his mother and wife, packed three rifles, three pistols, a shotgun, 700 rounds of ammunition, food, coffee, vitamins, medicine, earplugs, water, matches, lighter fluid, rope, binoculars, a machete, three knives, a radio, toilet paper, a razor, and deodorant. He went to the observation deck of the Main Building Tower at the University of Texas at Austin.

Whitman killed 14 people and injured 31. He was shot dead. For 18 years, it was the deadliest mass lone gunman shooting in U.S. history. It was unthinkable.

Whitman had sought professional help for “overwhelming, violent impulses;” fantasies about shooting people from the tower. He told them what and where. These are the things they don’t tell us.

“I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.”

Look both ways. To the beginning and to the end (if there is one).
Mind the gaps as you live in this moment of grave concern with sadness or anger. 

To see the Notes from Uvalde poem and Prosery rules, follow this link: https://dversepoets.com/2022/06/06/dverse-prosery-how-many-more-will-it-take/.

Friday Fictioneers for June 3rd 2022

Happy June, y’all. Today our friend, Lisa Fox, purveyor of dao and Daoism, productive blogger extraordinaire, unafraid of flair and finer hints of purple, partners up with Mistress Rochelle to present an interesting photo to stimulate our story telling senses and to help us with a one-hundred-word escape plan.

Click on Lisa’s pic to escape on over to Rochelle’s page to see how it’s done.

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Lisa Fox

Genre: Fiction
Title: Boys in the Belfry
Word count: 100

***

After the Army, we snagged this great side-hustle with awesome pay and bennies.

I remember telling Jimmy.

“Wait until he’s halfway down the ladder. Empty your clip up his ass. Get the picture and ear. We meet Warren in the belfry at eight.”

Jimmy said, “No problemo, Mister Sunshine. You be careful chasing him. He’s a bad one.”

I walked to the front, checked the address, banged on the door, and yelled, “State Police. We have a warrant!”

A lovely lady opened the door. I heard muffled shots. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Wrong address.”

I turned and walked to the church.

***

Look both ways for an entry and exit.
Mind the gaps in the escape.
And remember, cops never knock.

 

Click this shot for more fine flashy fiction.