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Pricks and Bones

There’s something almost magical about sitting down at the computer to write with zero plan. It’s our understanding of infinity loosely fulfilled. Like a queer Schrodinger’s box on meth where the cat could in the end be dead, alive, a velociraptor, potted fern, 1915 Cracker-Jack Ty Cobb Baseball card, Jesus Christ or any other perceivable “mass”. Sometimes that indeed includes nothing. I’ve sat down before and ended up calling it at the same blank page. Not every day is going to be a winner, but I like to try to at least try.

And here we are. A joke I’ve been bandying about at work of late goes along these lines. What do you call the server* whose section** is part inside and part outside? Please note, I provided definitions below for any who are unfamiliar with restaurant colloquialism. The answer however is “bisectional”. Please note this joke improves by 10 funniness utils should that section also contain a couch. The more I thought about it though, who am I to say there are but two varietals of section. Indoor and outdoor exclusively is so 1915. You feel free to be whatever section brings you joy! So long as mine still gets the best tables!

Poetry then? This little diddy comes to us from an annoying day where I allowed a jab cross combo past my mental defenses.  I’ve always been greatly amused by and I can’t recall where i first heard it but, “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can leave you with irreparable trauma necessitating long term therapy”. 🙂


“Pricks and Stones”,  May 5, 2019.

I’ve heard tell that words don’t hurt 

Unless they are allowed 

Still working out how to skirt 

And best remain unbowed 

Why the fuck should people care 

How others may regard 

Why is it so strange and rare 

When not unduly marred?


Happily, it’s not so strange and rare these days but there was surely a time when I lived and died based upon the opinions of others. I imagine many of us enjoyed such a phase, I’d have kept it up maybe had I proved to be in any way adept… For the record the title sounded less like a gay porn volume in my head when I wrote it…

And with that I throw a transparent glass ball to the ground where it shatters filling the room with smoke as I disappear with a swish of my cape. Did I mention? I’m wearing a cape.

The smoke clears and I pop my head back in, Thanks for reading!

Further cape shenanigans…

-Alexander Blaikie

*Waiter/ Waitress… **The tables they’re working/ assigned to…

Categories: poetry writing

Tagged as:

dreadpoetssobriety

A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.

7 replies

  1. Sometimes I just slap the keyboard a few times to see what kind of words show up. Pare them down and voila, a meme.

    rewtopnr hrewpon orw pwregeq qbveeDB,YR

    Newton drew upon the orb’s pregnant energy. Queeval’s young age disallowed him participating in the experiment. He pouted at the end of the table.
    “Uncle Isaac, there’s no gottdamned way that apple is gonna fall exactly on that razor and slice perfectly in half, it don’t have ’nuff ‘nertia.”

    I truly did just slap the keyboard (making sure hit the spacebar more often than not).

    Liked by 1 person

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