from the dark deep lake of his eyes
washed up on your shore
balanced on a blade of his hair
you take a second chance at his skin
which has the look of tin
left out in a recent storm
dangerous as a virus starting
fished from his mouth
an unfamiliar curl of dull light like
a line of syllable struck on an infinite yet vacant sky
sickles you in its soiled embrace
he circles in again
patient like a surgeon
from a distant planet
you gulp you rumble yet fail
to notice sap that blooms and spills
ecstatic from his ruinous touch
that acts like a compliment, but isn’t so
you wilt you mumble
as he picks his teeth
larger than easter island monuments
as you swoon
sucked clean as a puckered scar
flapping there, un-speeched
beached on remnant happiness
no-one else gets
this vice is your
not a haiku
NaPoWriMo day 24
Hard-boiled detective novels are known for their use of vivid similes, often with an ironic or sarcastic tone. Novelist Raymond Chandler is particularly adept at these. Here are a few from his novels:
- A few locks of dry, white hair clung to his scalp, like wild flowers fighting for life on a bare rock.
- Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
- From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.
- She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.
- He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.
Today, I’d like to challenge you to channel your inner gumshoe, and write a poem in which you describe something with a hard-boiled simile. Feel free to use just one, or try to go for broke and stuff your poem with similes till it’s . . . as dense as bread baked by a plumber, as round as the eyes of a girl who wants you to think she’s never heard such language, and as easy to miss as a brass band in a cathedral.