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The Real Sleepy Hollow
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CLICKITY CLACK
Wolves howl into the moon. It feels like death is knocking at my doorstep. Sitting on the porch now. ‘Sorry, my hollow cowboys. Shall we go scorch a flame then? And indeed I have doubtless gone insane; what words tickle the tongue, for a fourteenth fountain folly flows? A timid mountain of cinders there, portrayed upon the topless horizon yonder?’ And so he will till the land… ‘I'm quite parched, actually, thanks for asking...’ Queenie responded bitterly to my discourse, sniffing the corn-dry field not unlike a pig and shit-stomping about her copper-caged circus corral. ‘Thusly dearest, my nectarine treats! Take a look and see what mighty creatures we hold on display this very, very elegant evening indeed!’
Now this appears to be a less
Now this appears to be a less than straightforward story and more a surreal horror vignette. A lone narrator sits on a porch under a howling moon, sensing death at the door as their thoughts unravel into strange, poetic fragments. Images of ash, fountains, and scorched land blur with muttered confessions, creating a mood of dread and madness. Beneath the gothic atmosphere, the piece reads like a meditation on mortality, futility, and the thin line between sanity and the supernatural; all with the ominous sound of “clickity clack” hinting that something is drawing ever closer.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
I added successive sentences,
I added successive sentences, by the Carrot Carriage
peace, pot, tequila shot
Jesus loves us, stoned or not
Queenie’s addition really
Queenie’s addition really changes the energy; she turns the piece from a solitary, brooding monologue into a grotesque little carnival. I like how her bitter, theatrical voice contrasts with the narrator’s solemn tone, almost like madness stepping out into the open.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver