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Mollusk
September 5, 2013
10:50 pm
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My body collapses

beneath pressure,

the ocean-like weight

sits heavy on my skin

like cream atop

fresh milk.

 

I often think my chest

holds three hearts,

like an octopus,

with a bag for a body

and light-blue blood

pumping.

 

One heart is for mechanics,

one is for vision, and one is

somewhat romantic.

Together, they tug me

in different directions,

urge me to sink, float, drift.

 

Their strings slice into

my outsides like scissors

and operate my feet—

floppy, clumsy, and

too closely attached

to my head.

 

I’m a puppet

persuaded by organs,

diving in on instinct,

deficient in reason,

pressed soft

by my environment.

 

The air has gone missing

and so have my bones.

My fingers become

suction cups, my eyelids gills;

my mouth and nose

become a beak.

 

My skin begins to blend

into patterns of the walls,

of the floor—now,

the hearts cannot divide me,

my eyes cannot fool me,

my mouth cannot speak.

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
September 5, 2013
10:54 pm
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This was based on a poetry prompt... three random things traded about by students in the poetry class I am TAing for. Mine were as follows:

Color: blue

Animal: octopus

Object: scissors

It took me a while to write it, then edit... but I have to say, I am actually pleased with how this turned out. Much better than my feeble attempt for the same exercise as an actual student in the class less than two years ago.

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
September 6, 2013
4:12 am
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I enjoyed your transformation the most. The mouth and nose as a beak was great, I would never guess this was a word prompted poem.

The following users say thank you to Forgewright for this useful post:

tlhopkinson
I am a man with one distinguishing manner. I view life as a nonstop roll by circus. Whatever my senses signal to my brain, it is received as humor.
September 6, 2013
9:55 am
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That was the goal... thanks Forge!

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
September 6, 2013
1:57 pm
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This poem really made me smile. It was a wonderful orientation into what if.................. A mollusc of any sort would be the last thing I would expect to read a poem about. And certainly Octopus has never really gathered any thought nor interest in the poetry department until now. Very nice descriptive and almost delicate change to such a shy creature of the sea................ the last stanza would have indeed completed transformation with 'My skin begins to blend with the patterns of the walls.' ......................... And now I have a picture in my mind's eye that somewhere neath the turbulent waves is a male octopus clinging to a reef wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into by greeting you.............................

Those individuals who deem themselves perfect barely scratch an elbow in their fall from grace. Wm Steele
September 6, 2013
5:28 pm
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Thanks for the comments Killer... glad you see me for what I am and not necessarily the persona of the poem :) . As you've noted before, I'm not one to collapse into a bag of flesh too easily :) .

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
September 6, 2013
7:56 pm
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Indeed I do know your persona................ God help us should you ever morph into  something with a greater physical presence than a female human being ............ eight appendages with that brain? Someone, somewhere would no doubt suffer a great deal..........

The following users say thank you to Killerelite for this useful post:

tlhopkinson
Those individuals who deem themselves perfect barely scratch an elbow in their fall from grace. Wm Steele
November 8, 2013
9:49 pm
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Revised... mucho better.... (sorry, @Killerelite )

 

Mollusk

 

 

I often think my chest

holds three hearts—

like an octopus

with a bag for a body

and light-blue pumping blood.

One heart is for mechanics,

one is for vision,

and one is romantic.

I’m a puppet

persuaded by organs,

diving in on instinct,

deficient in reason,

pressed soft by my environment.

The air has gone missing

and so have my bones.

My fingers are suction cups;

my eyelids are gills;

my mouth and nose, a beak.

My skin begins to blend

into patterns on the walls,

on the floor—

now the hearts cannot divide me,

my eyes cannot fool me,

my mouth cannot speak.

My body collapses

beneath the pressure

as the ocean sits heavy

like cream atop fresh milk.

 

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

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