Rip out my Tongue
I grew up on lurid tongue maps: sweet, sour, bitter and salty. Of course Santa’s sled, bunny’s eggs and the marijuana gateway also flavored my metaphor soup. But after sweet-scary-Shiva, Japan’s slimy miso continued to slap my provincialisms: “delicious” was smashed by the umami tsunami — yep, back to the tongue, to the back of the tongue — no, not bitter, this is meaty or is it?
A kotatsu ain’t no table. Sure it is! Plato’s forms scream for attention. It is all wrong. Chaos theory and Fuzzy logic were fated to playground abuse because of coins untrue to their nature. Their fates unraveled and atrophied like an Angler’s balls in his sexual suicide. But without context, its all right – for poets shouldn’t read links because Ransom and Cleanth tell us the poem is enough – footnotes are a joke. Yep, the joke is on me: Sipping umami rich demon-killer and miso shiro as the kotasu cuddled my testicles – bokke! Only if I rip out my tongue, will I have speech without metaphor.
— by Sabio Lantz, 10/5/12
Prompt: Anna @ d’Verse challenges us to “stretch our imagination & skills” by trying to write Prose Poetry — a post-modern poetic ‘form’. I think I just pulled a hamstring.
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- tongue paps
- sexual suicide
- Ransom and Cleanth: The New Criticism
- Demon Killer