Clumsy by Laura Pickard
Do not wish to peck, snatch, what could dredge out that crag; Plump, obtuse;
Not a necessity.
Whoops, the gall?
Squeamish.
So harken, brace as befits, when in close quarters,
proximity. Sometimes somersault, nearly capsize, hitch on
the tarmac; Finagle.
Irksome gait, as I skid, sploot, catapult;
Its divot indelible.
Please dismiss my squawk, excess blurbing, babble;
Chipper riffraff.
The trill is tinsel, shall recede, wean;
Besot in seran wrap.
Still a concession shan’t be goaded in this cloistering vipers gripe. Might
allow for easy plucking but fruit is bruised, sodden, overripe. In a pickle,
damn doozy, slurry spike; Now how swell does it bode? Bombarded by
strobes, awe-stricken with an abrupt halt, aye, the motherlode.
Hush, find solace in the silence, sweet nothings, what a savage.
Farewell, abandon in haste, impish gleam, my flesh that you ravage.
A barren landscape where terrain is rugged and archaic.
Monopolise, under dominion, selfish and barbaric.
Decomposing from lust and greed, insatiable appetite. Vultures with their brutish medieval footfalls, ensnare, gloat in delight.
Keep cooped up inside.
Continual, pervasive.
Flinch and recoil.
Where the maggots gnaw.
Living in a damn pig sty.
Riddle my dreamscape.
Barbed wire fencing.
Curl my upper lip, snarl.
Eternity loop.
Needle prick, tattoo.
An icicle immersion.
Vital nutrient.
Laura Pickard has been writing for as long as she can remember. Only recently
has this hobby become therapeutic for her. She allows her words to spill onto the
page without judgment or shame, then decides whether to create from that space.
