(content) Conception: A Prose Poem

[heslopian]

I imagine her barefooted, wearing denim shorts, as she walks along the beach, the sand rising and falling between her pink toes. The sky powder blue. I loathe her. The breathing definition of whore. Diseased and spoiled, out alone, her cunt pleading for the first navyman delighted to have come across a 19 year old prostitute. Years later she will tell me she never loved him, but he was nice and had a house (though not at the time; more lies). He will tell me he wishes he'd let his friend have her, as they walked down the pier and he ran after her, setting the wheels in motion, the three baby peas glinting in his eye and formenting with the ebb and flow of her pubic hair. I loathe them both. The selfish teenage hooker selling her pussy for a house and a car, passing on her rotten genes to her youngest son, the elders spared by luck I envy. He, already old and bitter, crass, racist and putrid like all men who take pride in their cocks as though the limp flesh marks them as superior. When I think of my parents making love I think of a cane toad fucking a dead salamander. They knew. She knew. The loneliness and crippled limbs, depression bearing down on you like a Yardie on the arse of a petty thief from Manchester. The fear of madness, evil, death. It's one long rotten game of pass the fucking parcel, where under each layer lies a new cloud of shit. The day of my conception is also the day this poem was conceived. 19 years later and I've written it.

[billy]

i think it a great write and some very descriptive lines, love "yardie on the arse of a petty thief from Manchester" but for me this is out and out narrative, the poetic device in the piece is simile and though their good and original they aren't for me, enough to take the piece of of being solely narrative prose. i would have hoped for some assonance, alliteration, etc a nice write but for me needs a couple more poetic devices
thanks for the read.

[heslopian]

Yes I completely understand. This should have been a short story but I was too lazy to write one at the time. I plan on returning to it and fleshing it out into a several page piece of prose. Thanks for the feedback.

[addy]

This is gorgeous jack, a piece that falls mostly under prose (your use of language is indeed beautiful but nevertheless in many parts for me its straight-up narrative). That does not diminish its literary value. I love your choice of a deceptively serene opening that soon goes downhill. I winced reading some of it, and that's a good thing.

[heslopian]

Thanks for the kind words addy

[Leanne]

Jack, forgive me if I repeat what others have said, I haven't read their comments so as not to colour my own thoughts. First and foremost, I believe this should remain in its current format, though it is not prose poetry or anything really other than pure prose and I'd suggest editing it to reflect that properly. That it's prose does not negate the line "... the day this poem was conceived" -- however, I think "19 years later and I've written it" is overkill. I would finish on the previous line. I'm starting at the wrong end, I know, so I'll go back to the beginning

I imagine her barefoot, wearing denim shorts as she walks along the beach, the sand rising and falling between her pink toes. The sky: powder blue. I loathe her. The breathing definition of whore, diseased and spoiled, out alone, her cunt pleading for the first navyman delighted to have come across a 19 year old prostitute. Years later she will tell me she never loved him, but he was nice and had a house (though not at the time; more lies). He will tell me he wishes he'd let his friend have her, as they walked down the pier and he ran after her, setting the wheels in motion, the three baby peas glinting in his eye and fermenting with the ebb and flow of her pubic hair. I loathe them both. The selfish teenage hooker selling her pussy for a house and a car, passing on her rotten genes to her youngest son, the elders spared by luck I envy. He, already old and bitter, crass, racist and putrid like all men who take pride in their cocks as though the limp flesh marks them as superior. When I think of my parents making love I think of a cane toad fucking a dead salamander. They knew. She knew. The loneliness and crippled limbs, depression bearing down on you like a Yardie on the arse of a petty thief from Manchester. The fear of madness, evil, death. It's one long rotten game of pass the fucking parcel, where under each layer lies a new cloud of shit. The day of my conception is also the day this poem was conceived.

I am in two minds about leaving in the "19 year old prostitute" -- if you leave it in, you need something about yourself being 19, I suppose, but not to finish as it's not a strong enough connection as it is. You could maybe use "19 year old prostitute, 19 years ago".

Really good bones here, Jack, but a little way to go yet.

[heslopian]

Thank you for the feedback Leanne. I did worry that the last line was a bit melodramatic haha. I agree that this isn't a prose poem. It's a short story, but I was too lazy to write a short story haha.