Practice Verse


Here are some excerpts of the scrap verse I produced in iambic pentameter. It’s just practice, but I thought I’d share it anyway.

A murk-doomed day, its fleet of astral smog,
its subterranean earthworm exposed.
The cigarette, unashed, burnt to her lips,
and lit the fuse that burst within her breast.
The void was such a gentle place to be
in harsher times, the rose had three regrets.
All smothered in a business suit, the boy
outbet the men, like stars outburn the sun.
I’m seeing where I don’t belong, and why.
Behold the hour, no sweeter than its year,
at which we trash our calendars and clocks.

He holds his fate between his lips and smiles.
She fought a bird beneath a broken sky.
The wheel of doubt has struck me down again.
I turned the wheels inside her circus mind.
Those wheels burned against the painted clowns.
Sunk in a doom of birds, who won’t rejoice?
Tonight the stars say grace, and fall to snow.

We wore our hoods and slipped beneath the stars.
All sex is measured by its eloquence.
Made in the dark, what do decisions do?
Be serious, the song of you begins.
Be mad as ducks, shred rivers with your wings.
Be someone else, be anyone but me.
Believe in beauty, be the femme fatale.
Be death, transfigured, ghost of the ocean,
the fiery reef of the chief’s sea-tossed wife,
One bullet’s in the barrel of the gun.
The cabin slanted in the winter storm.
The tree picked at its bark with jagged sticks.
The guillotine is strung by tiny thread;
a cat plays with the knot beside the head.
Those eyes of easel grease and glassy ice.
A glistening of thorns broke from those eyes.
I’m melted in a maelstrom of selves,
Make the muck hum, toad of a tickled throat.
The royal skeleton upon his bone.

by Ryan Dowling

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