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Jake's Story

September 5th, 2008 Leave a comment Go to comments

"Tromp" is a new word
I'm introducing to the English language.
It refers to the puckering lips
of one in love
as he kisses his beloved hello or...
good-bye.
The putting together of the "soft"
of the mouth
of a child degusting
the sour
of his lemon ice cream.
The sad pout of one emotionally

overtaken

by intense feelings of loss, betrayal,
of heartache.

Jake was born to this world with a
swollen red tromp on his
swollen face. In fact, he was
swollen
all over and covered in amniotic fluid
and his own

phlegm.
Thus new and raw, a throbbing little cuteness,
his lips put together and warm

and inflamed

as they were, he laid his first kiss upon those
tender
of his happy, sobbing mom.

"For the longest time,"
now grown he said to me one starry night,
as we sat together atop the flatroof,
"I believed I had come to this world in
a space capsule, from a far-away planet."
Statements like these made

me

wonder as to his
true
planetary origin.
"My sister convinced me she had herself.
Of course, I wanted to be an

extraterrestrial

too. I had to be, being her brother
and all."

I

chuckled only to
stop short

a second

later,
choking up at my own

sudden

realization

of his sister's inspired understanding.
Placental sacs are

like space capsules -- you see.

But whether he descended from the
skies
one chilly night
has absolutely no bearing on the fact that

regardless

he was extruded out his
capsular surroundings

tromp first.

His salient gesture, whether tied to

his frightened frustration

quiet anger

introspective rumination or

mocking amusement was his

tromp.

If
you saw him in the subway
you'd judge him handsome with
his proud airs and
hairs disheveled
and inevitably focus on

the fullness

the peachy-cherriness of his

incarnadined

tromp.
It wasn't his
impish wink or nod
that would make him

irresistible

to the ladies, whether married or not
or his princely, respectful
poise toward the

chattery

gentlemen (too afraid of leaving him alone
to their wives or sisters or perhaps too
possessive
themselves of his
charismatic tromp);

it was his

tromp.

You can imagine what
was hushed
around in
girl circles about his

kissable

tromp.

Gigglingly silenced, several found

blush
run not to cheeks but to their

pale lips

now rubicund
puckered out in readiness

oh his full-mouthed

tromp.

 

 

*In this poem I attempt to describe me from a third person's point of view, in the manner of a little story. I pushed my luck with the interpretation and connotation of the word "tromp," and I'm hoping that by the end the meaning has not deteriorated to something my friend Marcel would describe as "creepy."

Categories: Miscellaneous, Poetry
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