So, I may be skirting the edge of the prompt. I started to free associate about the color I layer on a story then I layer on another story. Sometimes I think I'm out of my mind. I don't know about the rest of you, but my creativity goes to weird places. (Hopefully now that this draft is out of my system I can start critiquing...I get a little OCD when I'm writing).
Hood
Look at this tangle of thorns—Nabokov
Hunger is a breathless dance of teeth,
the smell of these 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 those candy apple lips.
This bag of raw meat,
slick droplet, budding rose,
this not 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.
Hood
Look at this tangle of thorns—Nabokov
Hunger is a breathless dance of teeth,
the smell of these 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 those candy apple lips.
This bag of raw meat,
slick droplet, budding rose,
this not 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.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson