Photo fiction

Mate; you’ve been rumbled –
you’re not crushed and humbled,
or stumblingly blushing in shame.
It’s the same old game that you play whenever
I catch you together with a weathered coquette,
in flagrante delicto – you know it’s a no-no,
but you will not forego your fumbling foreplay
or illicit delight; you go weak at the sight
of each flighty whore,
and by now you’ve had more
loose women than I’ve had hot dinners.

You may think you’re a winner, but I can resist
your lithe, virile flesh as you writhe and twist.
Don’t pretend to repent; my patience is spent,
you sick, silly nitwit, you’re ticked off my list.

Thank you  Michelle. I had a lot of fun with Photo Fiction #89

©Jane Paterson Basil

11 thoughts on “Rumbled

  1. Whoa. I dig this. I have a piece that could be the sister or second half to this poem! I never let it out of the box I’ve kept it in for over fifteen years for fear it would drive a rack of razor-teeth through my reaching arm at the elbow!

    Liked by 1 person

      1. The real burden of what constitutes ‘abuse’ is strapped, tight and heavy, to the back of the one being abused. Abuse likes to vary the victim, because the nature of its weaponization requires that it be uniquely suited to the nature of the weakness it heat-seekingly exploits. So it learns to walk in many shoes, dons many masks; it can skulk and strike from afar on the walled safety of lobbed and belittling barbs or it can very intimately pound and pulverize even the scarcest grains of hope with unpredictable force of fist. Although I never aimed a fist at a loved one, nor would I dream of it man-to-woman because I believe my raisin’ was and is of plainly honorable principle, I can’t say that I’ve not done my share of hurtful things. I think we all have and likely will again, on one level or another. It’s the emerging pattern of it that forms the face of abuse, however. Light starts to find the brow and cheekbone of the monster. He becomes slowly recognizable. It’s abuse when he can be seen coming and the only things not running the hell away is fear and loathing. I’ve been hurt, too. I’ve never been repeatedly whipped and bruised by somebody I trusted and loved; I’m bottomlessly sad for all who have. But I’ve met the beast, the bully, the bullshit artist on his different days. And, while I can’t fairly speak to the comparison of my painful experiences against those of others, I can say whoever pulls up with a sidecar of intention to inflict pain better have their laces on and tight.

        That, in part, is why your poem is so sacred and empowering, with a nice little aftertaste of acerbic humor. You stand on hallowed ground, and ‘Rumbled’ builds a pretty little fence around it.

        I will look for the piece I was remembering. It came from a place I very rarely write from, simply because I’m in the years-long process of remodeling it. Kinda the proverbial money pit so far, but it’s getting there.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. I’ve never been subjected to the kind of abuse described in my poem, but I know a self-styled Lothario who would like to trap me and treat me to it. My sweet little effort was intended as a kind of revenge for the harassment.
          Without trying to justify myself, I’ll admit that I am a mistress of revenge poetry. It usually has a formal meter, since that style can be more attacking.
          Your comment leaves me thoughtful. I was abusive to my ex husband, about thirty-five years ago. I have repented, – even occasionally thought that perhaps the abuse I received from someone else for twenty years following my marriage, was possibly payback – but never, until this moment, tagged the A word onto my behaviour.
          Yes, no doubt we are all abusive at times…

          Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Michelle – it probably shows what a low opinion I have of men in general, that I take one look at an image of a guy who seems to be suffering, and turn him into an asshole.


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