Rhyme in the Coconut/Novella

✅ Lugubrious & tilt-illating

Living death or broke? Awash in hatred, its miracle mire – religious, bloody, sexual. Strangely empowering and devouring. Boredom rang of hopelessness, a living death. And this job, as it turned out, was drudgery.

Presently, hidden away. Inside a well of seats inside a Mall. An alcove surrounded by big potted leaves. Sitting legs up on a break in between work writing in a notebook. At 16. Stupid poetry. 

Hired as Christmas help, store called U & I. Had just spent 4 hours folding and straightening.  Meanwhile, the heart was chock full of crazy.

The writing had hardly any linearity. No control over the saintly lame sacrificant wail of words, lumpish and creepy – pouring out.

Except : for timing in the rhyming – to realize you rhyme all the time, is at first quite scandalous.

Simply indefensible

The words slipped up up away, raging buckling bugged out, beating up against rhyme like a mousetrap thud against a wall, a door in wind – A picture suddenly in her head: a mouse, trapped by words, getting sliced and diced –

Sorrow, beauty, hatred – aswirl for symmetries, two by two into the zoo, at thresholds foreboding, bounding – rendering crests of something molten, ancient – stinging through the skin to the bone.

And worrying – blemishes pocking up on an innocents beleaguered soul – Damned but beautiful who would die for freedom their rescue being put on trial for love.

Voices ringing out above it all, yeah sure this is totally futile –

Saving for car

Time had to be turned into $$ into stinking cash – for hours on end, or else. How, after all, to exist in plain sight, if you couldn’t buy anything!

The thought was emotional even tender. Beauty searching galore-iously – for aliases? for sacred essences, clothed in truth, calming, calming the worm back into secreting silk.

LuLu went back to work. At U & I. Jeans again, this time on the other side in boys & men’s. Only two more hours.

Stoic, attempting to be largely demurrant again, folding folding, living on remote – a nose in the seaside air, a slatternly cat – its fur bunching, hunching up against the beauty of Venus of the pure of heart, whose virginity was doomed by the gods – to a serial of floodbursts, near escapes –

LuLu wondered if they would ever let her do something – else.


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