naugahyde

I fancy the suicide seat, splendid hazard,

without seat belts. Out of the immensity,

he shifts up, from drive to dance, fast.
Tires squeal. This guy has street smarts
Lee Van Cleef would envy. I've been told
he’s one slim customer, fag intense
in his lips, like holding a gun,
only more powerful.
I contemplate a roulette ride
across the eternal front seat,
tuck the professional virgin
in the glove box. Chance falls to his knees,
pending miracles, as the keynote gallops
a wheel of fire. Second glance speaks,
Only the weak need both belt and suspenders.
Jesus, he can’t even trust his own pants.
Sometimes I pray for love
and laugh when I get it.

Tess Kincaid
September 2010

The Tenth Daughter of Memory prompt "suicide seat"

photo borrowed from google images

silence lies, broken

Silence lies.

Ground Hog’s Day matinee

plays broken record,

third time today, semi-collapsed,

one-eyed skull stares at me

from the TV with the ease

Geraniums, Andrew Wyeth

of a game-show host,

expressions big,

like a silent-movie star.

I lie. Silence is not complete.

Broken by life’s dull rhythm,

the plink-plink playacting

in the greasy dishwater

of a rusted sink,

it is lulled awake

by the self-righteous stench

of a converted sinner, hocking

his snake oil infomercial,

iconic blessed hankies,

fat pink face perspiring

under a bad toupee,

the bolt upright,

perfectly knotted silk-tie

anchor of fresh nightly news,

chiseled chin pulled

ever-so-slightly

to the right, for emphasis.

Full and loud,

from the putty-nose school

of acting, sullen and wild,

silence lies, broken.

Tess Kincaid
September, 2010

This is an entry for The Tenth Daughter of Memory prompt "silence lies broken".

virgin villanelle

White Man’s Overbite

He was a god below the neck,

if you gently overlook

the overbite that used to peck.

Lip-scarred in a Navy wreck,

front teeth like a grappling hook,

he was a god below the neck.

His kisses perforated heck,

ubiquitous bewildered look,

the overbite that used to peck.

Bow-tied lisp we can't forget,

he only stood five odd foot.

He was a god below the neck,

elevator shoes danced on deck,

stepstool or telephone book,

the overbite that used to peck.

Smoked too many cigarettes,

sadly, one lone Oscar took.

He was a god below the neck,

the overbite that used to peck.

Tess Kincaid
August, 2010



Okay. I admit it. I am a Tenth Daughter virgin. This is my very first time participating in The Tenth Daughter of Memory. The instructions this time around were to write something inspired from the phrase "below the neck". This great blog is not new, but it's new to me, so hop on over and check it out! I found the origin of the unique blog name particularly interesting. It's also my virgin attempt at a crazy villanelle poetic form, which ended up being a lot of fun, actually.

I love-love Humphrey Bogart. He truly is one of my film noir favorites. But, in every kissing scene, I cringe when he comes at the leading lady with that can-opener-mouth of his. They say he had to stand on risers in the scenes to kiss Lauren Bacall and Ingrid Bergman. Cute.