Poefictiontry 1.0

"What is poefictiontry? To put it simply, it’s poetry that tells a story." Carve Magazine

My world is folding up into tight, pressed creases by the nail of some wealthy MILF. She laughs, drinking on her bourbon, which she detests, until she doesn't, grinding her teeth as fervently as waves do cliffs. A man floats near and gingerly, she passes the envelope of me over, gesturing to roll me, light me. Giggles fall from her mouth to between the pleats of her skirt.

Spun, twisted, tightened into place with the oils of this man's fingers, that earlier gripped a slick chicken leg infused with spices imported from Consumption, Bottom-less pit, and Central Convenience, while he later picked from between his teeth the leftover filaments of meaty fibres with a piece of premium mint flavoured sticks.

He lights, and I burn. Smoking out the hive inside my skull, and critters of wasps and earwigs flee. Chaos. Speed. Oooooh. ahh. That feels good baby.

Moans marble the hum of my city upheaval. A projector from an unidentified location mounts a black and white film I have never seen, but is familiar somehow. The images are terribly aggressive, but it seems like it is expected, normal. These two humans engage in the pre-scripted conscription of standard humping, which I am being consumed by upon their smokey whorls of heavy breath.

Banal and vacant.

Aggressive and unwanted.

When I touch your skin, I don’t notice the goosebumps, or the indent on your hip from the seam of your jeans.

When I close my eyes, I don’t recognize the sound of you blinking against my cheek.

I watch and the sounds of them flicker off-time, in and out, and their cries deplete mid-throat. Emptiness has an awful way of sounding.

Bzzzzz Bzzzz

ohh yessszz.

Silence them all.

#automatism #malloryamirault #creativewriting #poeticprose #fiction #poefictiontry #carvemagazine