For 2011's National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo), Troy's Work Table is attempting to write thirty poems in thirty days without the help of writing prompts from other websites.
Many of these are still in some sort of draft stage, but that is the nature of the Work Table.
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PROGRESS
The blade of the knife peels back the skin of my forearm and hand, then the dermis, and finally bites into the meat of my arm. I cut and cube the red flesh into one-inch squares, glorying in my newly discovered skills as a sous chef. The chunks of arm fill a skillet on the stovetop, where the blue flames of natural gas render the fat from the flesh, which I pour off into an empty and rinsed jar that once held lingonberry preserves.
Cheesecloth helps to define the oil that I seek: purifying, clarifying, bringing forth the hope of new life from old.
A quick twist of the knife and a soft “pop” tearing of tissue divorces radius and ulna from humerus, the former clacking together as they drop to the granite-like laminate of the countertop. I continue to butcher with the remaining hand and its clutched utensil, having practiced many times prior on the flesh of boar or other beasts.
Fortunately, there is little blood, due to tourniquet and candle flame.
The threaded screw finds its way into the marrow of bone with one half-twist after another, interrupted here and there by fainting spells brought upon by the pain that shots of dark rum cannot quite quell. Soon, though, the haft of the harpoon is secure and stable, the blade glinting where a palm and fingers once resided.
The oil from the jelly jar gives the metal a polish that one could barely imagine. Oh how it shines!
I snack on the few remains of my former arm, pulling them from the depth of an oversized coffee mug, while I hang over the starboard side of the boat, hovering inches from the water of the sea, waiting for the Whale to appear. I will need sustenance for the fight as I hold fast until one or the other of us perishes. It is time.
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Copyright © 2011 by Troy's Work Table
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