Ok, again the story is this. Im in a workshop years ago and someone said there was a wonderful poem about breasts being like wolves or something. Im like well, my breasts would be wolverines then and I try writing this straight poem. I get on the phone with Mitchell Geller and email Ivan Waters and they say this is the strangest image, this is hysterically funny, obviously you dont know what a wolverine is. So I look it up. I think I can DO this by repeating the line my breasts are wolverines and if I read this straight, the audience will love it. Problem with this is no one GOT that is funny, until about half way and then nervous laughter begins, its like they are afraid to laugh with me. Until I start to laugh myself. And now of course, the writers who know me KNOW about this impediment and how I have to keep them underwraps. Breasts After my blouse dropped to the hard wood floor, the silent assessment started. He hadn’t said a word, but my breasts had begun to sense fear. My breasts were wolverines. They snarled at the one who scoffed them. What I had was better than a poem, what I had was the truth finally from a man who always lied. He hooted loudly after I warned him and he said that my breasts were sweet wrens, or perky toads. I gave him one last chance, reared back gasping “wolverines.” My breasts, who after all, belonged to me, lunged at this galoot with his big mouth and while I tried to reason with them, this feral pair, these fangy beasts, began to slather and snap at the wild air. My breasts were wolverines and by now they were out of control, out of their minds, I dreaded what I knew would happen next. My breasts were wolverines and one sunk its teeth into the yokel and quick as howling ripped his tongue out lickedly split. I hated the fact he didn’t bleed like he was supposed to or plead about death. I hated the fact that my breasts were wolverines. He continued to choke on his own bloody words. Squeaking sounds of toads bubbled from his simpering lips. I was instantly assaulted by the smell of toad piss. My breasts were wolverines. He may have been half right. The other wolverine breast began to cower and yip from the violent nature of her twin. We watched it shiver and harden her rabid heart. She began to sink into a veiny-leafed lily, perhaps she was a frog or wanted to be, but she was definitely not dreaming about toads. My breasts were wolverines. I, of anyone, should know their ravenous intention. All this esoteric beauty started to leave the page and scramble to the hard wood floor. This was no longer the beginnings of a poem, or the unraveling of a relationship. My breasts were wolverines. After an enthusiastic denouement they would become properly domesticated. The world would be safe from their dangerous purpose. I looked down at my wolverine breasts, even the conversation had soured, had spoiled what we had been about to do. I sniffed the room which had a rank musky smell. I sniffed the coppery breath of my injured paramour. I fell to my knees and prayed to the medicine Gods for another twenty years. My love eyed me with suspicion. I announced I was going to keep them both.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Sep 2014 19:27:17 +0000
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