Remember all the lies, belittling stares, derisive laughter, heat of scarlet shame, a wake that followed after
preserved in ink, the aspic of the literati picking on the bones of every poet at the feast?
You hoped they’d disappear, stuffed-shirted corpses, gilt with attitude and privilege, but no, their breath still lingers,
the cloying scent of poets’ flesh and words they picked and ate with painted nails, bejewelled, ringed and bony fingers.
And after our annihilation, verses were preserved for their derision, books with broken spines displayed
for all to see. We did not die, we blossomed in their blood, a miracle of life and poetry;
we hid our blowflies’ eggs between the lines, beneath their skin, intending to perplex them for eternity.
Kim M. Russell, 13th April 2020
On Friday 13th April 2018, Magaly asked us to choose thirteen words from an extract from Diana Setterfield’s The Thirteenth Tale and use them in a poem that is a deliberate celebration of metaphor. I thought I’d square the prompt by writing in lines of thirteen syllables.
I’m merging this prompt with Kerry’s Skylover Wordlist, sourced from Dylan Thomas’s poetry collection Deaths and Entrances, from which the thirteen word is ‘lie’.