Brainless head.
Five-member mob.
Core sample for a lead mine.
The last word’s epitaph.
Stump.
Dave Bonta (bio) often suffers from imposter syndrome, but not in a bad way — more like some kind of flower-breathing dragon, pot-bellied and igneous. Be that as it may, all of his writing here is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).
Boy that’s good! A poem like a fist, about a fist. And now it’s stuck like a burr in my mind. Dave, you are one clever, clever man! Well done my friend.
I was going to comment on the fist-like structure of the poem, but I see I have been beaten to it already. Indeed, well done.
Thanks, Clive and Maria! Praise from you two makes me think I might’ve gotten it right, though for the longest time yesterday I was convinced that these were only the bare bones of a poem.
No, hardly bare bones. This was fully fleshed out, albeit in short-hand.
Great piece of writing, Dave.
“Short-hand”! Thanks for the chuckle.