The Ridiculous Truth About the Scrumptious Snail: A Poem

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While I am still preparing the next blog and travel bit, I thought you might enjoy this brief interlude.

The Key West writers guild conducts a word flash writing exercise during the off weeks of the regularly scheduled meetings. Words are submitted on ragged pieces of paper ( a writing group sans writing utensils), arbitrarily tossed into a hat and then three selected.

The object to write, write, write…either a poem or up to a 750 word prose piece. Due to the constraints of writing the book, Fish on a Leash, and a new project in progress, a two-hander play, I have refrained from participating. However, while baking one night and given the nature of the weeks words, my thoughts wandered. (Not unusual given the nature of senioritis). I began composing a little ditty, which has turned into a poem of sorts. Since poetry has taken a different tack from when we are high school and college students, this might just qualify as containing poetic elements: a form, a sound, a rhythm, an image, a voice and an intention.

Prompt words in order of appearance: escargot, pheremones, ridiculous, concatenation, spiral, mimosa, scoundrel, salsa, bight, anonymous, sex, tintinnabulation, music, manic, salutary, kiss, obituary. Like my five chocolate chocolate chips, I offer you a petite tickle.


Formerly known as The Ridiculous Horny Snail
Inspired by the Key West Writer’s Guild’s Prompt Nights

Madame Escargot’s pheromones raged,
at a snail’s pace.
C’est ridicule,” rasped Monsieur,
whose visceral hump always screamed for more.

“A free-wheelin’ conch I’m not,” she yelped,
“Unlike my cousin, the whimpering whelk.”
Monsieur excreted comeuppance.
Bien sur, vous n’êtes pas, Madame!”
(of course, you’re not!)
You my escargot, are a slug!”

Her femininity insulted, Madame flipped over,
clammed her foot, head, neck and tail beneath her sheath,
vociferously declaring,
Pas ce soir, pas ce soir Joseph!”
(Not tonight, not tonight, Joseph!)

Concatenating, they spiraled,
Riding the king tide through deadened mimosa leaves.
To Cayo Hueso’s blackened watery depths, they plunged.
Madame, a nervously grousing limpet, pedal-waved first.
Monsieur, a scoundrel at heart, passionately pursued.

Sliming homeward,
they salsaed to the bight’s sandy bed.
She skipped agin her slippered shell, and juddered, alone.
Retreating to dreams alive in the darkness,
silent murmurings of mysterious anonymous sex.

Monsieur’s amorous tintinnabulations
and soulful music implored,
                                        “Mais, mon Cherie, maintenant. Maintenant, mon Cherie?                                      (but, my dear, now.. Now , my dear?)
Madame’s reverie broke,
freeing a refrained frisson of desire.

She manically crawled closer and feigned a salutary kiss.
“Peut-etrê, peut-etrê demain soir, Joseph, mon amour!”
(Perhaps, perhaps tomorrow night, Joseph, my love!)
His hope, a complexity of confusion and climactic renewal.
Tomorrow never came.

Monsieur, the weaker of the two, had a premature demise.
His skeletal remains crumbled to a salty grave.
Sketched in the sand, Monsieur Mollusque’s obituary read:
“To a hermaphroditic finale”
Oui, Joseph, ce soir, ce soir!
(Yes, Joseph, tonight, tonight!)

Copyright June 6, 2019 Judith D. Winters
content may not be used without express permission of the author

Comments

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      Judi

      Glad you enjoyed it Mark. I am going to post another piece I did for the flash fiction but I am not sure if Rusty read it at the last meeting.

  1. Janette Stone

    Madame, c’est superbe, c’est superb et tres titillant. Pur genie et oh si vilaine. Je l’aime.

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