Hardcore Edge

Hard to the core, and surface polished to a deep rich brown, years of wear and no tear treading on my tongue and groove –
although that odd dog, the weird one with long blond curly locks did sit and gnaw one of my legs – right number he did, chewed off veneer and polish and left me with permanent scars –
his teeth forever embedded in my flesh –
and ah, the look of stern disapproval from the mother when it was noticed.

But there are no ring marks from countless sweating steins or bottles,
the odd smudge from a hastily sweater sleeve wiped spill, honey sweet milky tea, and a few odd crumbs lodged in the split for the leaf wood, but they never stay there long –
a rough tongue will fish them out.

You don’t believe in table cloth coverings – preferring to see me age, wearing bald spots and shaving nicks from knife tips, but I’m tougher than this.

But it’s that one particular edge –
the edge where she sits and click click clicks as her fingers tap, when her nails are too long she swears at the endless number of mistakes she makes as she half bakes stories and slaps together meals on wheels on her lap top. I guess I could call it finger food tid-bits, if I could be bothered.

But it’s the edge that really matters.

Curved like a swollen fat bottomed lip I pout out and she plants her butt and slips, if the material is thin enough and I’m feeling finely tuned with the scent of lemons. And she slouches and shuffles and readjusts her ass and thoughts and hits the keys again, while I stroke her bottom, a bit heavier on the left side cheek, so soon enough, sometimes within minutes, she fidgets and shifts as her legs start the tingle slide from hip, along thigh, down past the rounded calf to end at her toes –

yeah, honey, this is the ticket – so hard and finely crafted am I – I can bring tears to your eyes –

The choice of pleasure and pain a fine line which I love crossing –
it’s within my nature to hard core craft as you sit and draft stories and words – stirring it up in the kitchen, where I sat for so many years, listening in to the silly stories and back and forth taunts and teasing, bearing the weight of squirming and intense stares, with toes clenching in death grips on rungs, the smell of fear staining dinner, wrung out of your skin as it stuck to my back – there’s no hiding from all of these trips –
and in a flash, I know your heart –
for I gave mine long ago –
to be tooled and carved and housed,
maple wood table and chairs –
a set of 4 –

And even if I can’t speak your language, I serve the purpose of reminder –

You’d take the axe and sharpen the blade to a shining silver fine line, swinging it hard and fast, splitting me into pieces,
the desire to throw me on the bonfire blaze breathing in your soul –
reduced to ashes

These are the imprints ingrained in my smooth and polished surface –
it’s this edge, where you sit, that really matters.

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver #129: around the house

201 files

I am most familiar
in high contrast –
the blindingly brilliant days
when the garbage strewn back alleys
and black metal stairs
case themselves
in an opaque darkness
the details are hardpressed –
etched in asphalt and grey scales

It is here I wait
frame and click –
letting vignettes breathe themselves
into a life –
culled from the trance
you of the ordinary
perform mundane rituals –
recycling binned
re-shift the broken wooden pallet
upon which sit two balding truck tires
a sprocket wrench and a rusting bolt
its nut long lost somewhere
as a cracked wing mirror reflects back –
things are no longer closer than they appear
while a thicket of tomatoes
in 4 gallon pails
full green in leaf and spider-legged yellow blossoms
jungle your path
the red fruit staked and tied up
with flesh coloured panty hose
cut at the crotch
and a juicy beefstake boy is almost full
to bursting
waiting for your loving hand –
the pluck
from stem to plate
in infinite grace
of your tread on the spiral staircase
your escape and launch
from 3rd story back door
to courtyard
where you tend to an oblique slice
of asphalt and concrete life
renting out your dreams
in the day-to-day

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: saturday’s mix