“Well said,” I say, as if you were quite right.

How mighty your mind seems at my command,

Though sometimes you look pale against the light.

They say to have a pallid face shows plight

in soul. Ah well, I take your sweaty hand.

“Well said,” I say, though I know I am right.

So dark’s a rhyme when rhymed in dark of night,

I’ll write quite sweetly sweet words you demand,

Though sometimes you look pale against the light.

“Write this!” you say, and “this” I promptly write

In bright, bold print, and when I lift my hand

“Well said,” I say, pretending it’s alright.

I see how cute you are in fits of spite,

Raging at me, like fire through dry land

(Though sometimes you look pale against the light.)

Rage on sweet rage and sweetness you’ll command

With soul and body – and when you lose my hand.

“Well done,” I’ll say, and exit to the right.

My shadow gone, you’ll pale against the light.

Where is an Aphrodites?Marilyn has failed me and my

Dark brown hair.

Her alter is too neon

And my eyes

Are still too weak from years in

The dark-room.

The screen is void of her,

The screen which led me where

I’ve gone so far. It has no

Aphrodites, no prude Diana,

No smart-aleck Athena

Telling everyone just what to do.

Where is prissy Hera,

If not in the high heels,

Those love scenes and shaky monologues?

(Three weeks straight of Elizabethan verse gets to a gal.)

 My beaten heart no longer beats.

The doctors leave for weekend plans;

They say my heart will go no more

As others go. No other glance

From other men will move it forth

From whence it came. No other song

Will lend it measured meters and

No other scale will test its worth

As you had done with balanced arms.

You tilted left, a foul tilt

Which sentenced me to this foul state –

Though once you promised me no harm.

But listen! Your ear on my chest

Might wake the sound of beating yet. 

The blog “55 Words” has started a trend of 55-word short stories online. I think this is an excellent exercise, so occasionally be posting some of my own attempts of these miniature pieces. This particular one shows that I have been reading too much Chuck Palahniuk lately:

This slow-walking hipster has red hair that looks like a perfect target for my fist.

“Move it!” I shout because I’m late and just got off of the phone with a dying relative who thinks I’m their old lover. He jumps forward. Bits of him spit at me when the bus hits.

My martyr.