Phantasmagoria

This poem was written for Read Write Poem Prompt #114: All Over The Map. I decided to continue the narrative that began in “Endgame” and continued in “Emmaus”. The words led me to a dream sequence experienced by the character in both poems; it is constructed in three Six Sentences pieces with two short interludes in between. I hope you enjoy the read.

And BTW, please feel free to look at this poem over on the test blog too.

-Nicole

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I. A Dead God’s Chest.

Your mind unfolds, tumbling out jewel-wrapped candy like a cracked-open piñata minted inside a pirate’s fiction. This is the stuff of little boy and girl pretend, of cinemascope phantasms dreamt alive in the dark. It is made out of crowns, galleons, doubloons, and blessed by curses like the clown-painted Aztec god grin baring teeth at you from the face of an underbreath promise: take my treasure and you die, mortal. You laugh like the sunset dancing diamonds upon the water that holds your ship aloft, but a sword swishes wet and red in your ear, drawing its double-dog-dare-you onto a blueprint that looks just like your neck. It’s the eggshell crack that you never hear until your boots break through a wretched, open floor. And on the way down, you will see those boots embedded inside that grin, lodged between eyetooth and incisor as a testament against you, just before your back splits apart upon Hell’s floor.
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Emmaus

This was written for Read Write Poem Prompt # 112: The Narrative Wallpaper. I decided to continue the story from last week’s poem, Endgame. I wanted to see what happened to the speaker in the poem. I looked at a stretch of highway near where I lived and tried to capture how it looked a couple of mornings ago — then, I used it as a backdrop for the poem/story.

Enjoy.

-Nicole

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I watch alien armies of metal men raise
morning above the mist, which itself floats
delicate and dangerous above the freeway. They are
lined up, perfect poles stuck in stationary, rooted in
the cement wall that splits this asphalt in two. First, a line of
grey dancers, poised with arms in a double arc like
wings spread. They hold a yellow streetlight in each palm like a
pair of strange pale eyes above the freeway. Ahead of them, Continue reading

Gethsemane

I am posting this poem because Good Friday approaches. I tried to capture an image of Jesus, and what he might have been thinking and feeling in those final moments in Gethsemane before he was arrested. Presumptuous, perhaps, but I still tried.

-Nicole
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