Beneath a Red Hood (Revision 2.1)

[tectak]

A big yes to this Todd. A remarkable extension of a single remit....conviction verse of the highest order. Enough of this sycophancy...line by line but not many.
tectk


Revision 2

Hunger is a breathless dance Why not? I can see the imagery though in my mind it is the assuaging that makes the dance. What say you?
of teeth; the smell of rusted iron,
I stink of it.Again I read more in to this than I probably aughtta...the smell of iron is of blood is, is sanguine as you say in the next verse. Deliberate? Tell me it is. I continually rage against enjambment as it always seems to me that unless controlled and PURPOSEFUL it is just making lasagne in to linguine....and I confess, I often cannot see purpose so for me it is not there. I could read this piece in greater comfort if the line lengths were complete unto themselves:

Hunger is a breathless dance of teeth;
the smell of rusted iron, I stink of it.
My ears prick to the sanguine skip,
her hum a mouthful of bees.                           Just sayin'.


My ears prick
to the sanguine skip, her hum
a mouthful of bees.

She dangles sweet cherries
on the tongue that licks
against this gnarled root. OK...love this. There is an uncertainty which in another room I could argue was obfuscation...the sincerest form of obscurity. I think it is caused by."....THIS....gnarled root".

Slick droplet,
bag of raw meat, 
not so little girl,

her hair a thorny tangle
of waves beneath 
the blood moon.This is a risky pairing of images...in fact, I am not clear what the intention is as far as identity goes. Who is what?

Who could see
and claim her 
an ingénue?I am now getting picky but "Who could see and claim her to be an ingenue?" in one line shows up the missing "...to be...". I cannot but help reading the "to be" in to it. Bugger.

Liquid desire
in pale, naked 
light dribbling
down my chin.Yes

No longer hooded,
her breath rasping, 
a whetstone against 
my sharp angles. Tentative yes to the understanding but to link "...her breath" to a "whetstone...." is stretchy. Allocate yourself more words to nail this one down...it is not a crime.

Generations will fill 
my stomach—

so big, so big. So good he described it twice

~~
Edit: (Richard, Lizzie, vagabond)

Revision 1.1

Hunger is a breathless dance 
of teeth—the smell of rusted iron—
I stink of it.

My ears prick
to the sanguine skip, her hum
a mouthful of bees.

She is sweet cherries
on the tongue that licks
against the gnarled root. 

Slick droplet,
bag of raw meat, 
not so little girl,

hair, a thorny tangle
of waves beneath the blood
moon.

Who could see
and claim her 
an ingénue?

liquid desire
in pale naked 
light, dribbling wine,

no longer hooded,
her breath, a rasping 
whetstone against 
my sharp angles.

Generations will fill 
my stomach—

so big, so big.

~~

Edit: made a few slight changes

Look at this tangle of thorns—Nabokov

Hunger is a breathless dance of teeth—
the smell of bricks—
I stink of it.

Prick to the sound
of a sanguine skip, her hum
a mouthful of bees.

The taste of innocence is sweet
cherries on the tongue. Licks
across the gnarled root.

This bag of raw meat,
slick droplet, budding rose,
this not so little girl.

Hair like the blood
moon in a tangle
of thorns, a violent cascade

Who could see
and claim her
an ingénue?

The liquid color of desire
in pale naked light
the smell of mutton, dribbling wine.

The path meant to walk
away from—
generations will fill my stomach.

No longer hooded,
breath a rasping whetstone
against my sharp angles.

So big, so big, today is different.
~~~