Kurt Vonnegut’s description of nearly every story ever written is quite accurate. The circumstances of the protagonist will turn for the worse, if they haven’t started there, but will eventually resolve into happiness, bliss, good fortune, etc. I finished a poem today that I’ve been piecing together for about a month. Its story involves a protagonist that only experiences good, happy things. This is boring. To spare you of the dull, drab plot details I’ve started the poem at the end of the story. Its theme is slightly more biologically-instinctive-cravings-to-meet-needs-of-reproductive-system-oriented than what I’m used to writing, but so it goes.
Commence with the climax:
Slowly growing limp,
Bed-backed and blissful,
Woven wicker legs t r a d e t o e s ,
Fingertips slide in sync,
Skin-skating over icewhite rink,
Emboss cryptic codes across chest.
What was antic, yet romantic,
Stripped our sayings of semantics;
Mouths become momentum
For no reason but rhythm.
Sweatdamp cheeks caressed
By salty touch of breath,
Gently tugs reins of awareness –
From gallop, to prance, to stride, to graze…
open pastures of
neck-up. Peck up
lost in lea
the languid night grips language in throats –
and burning bedside candles