Pocket Freud

Sublimate.
Chocolate cake.
Lick the plate
clean.

meyouuswe

meyouuswe

me you  us we

me   you  us we

me     you  us we

me      you  us we

    you 

Today's challenge at Real Toads was to take a line from a poem (or poet) that you don't particularly care for and write in the same style or theme.  Or, something like that.  Anyway, I don't get purely abstract concrete poems, so I decided to try one.  Here's a link to a bit of the real thing.  Hope this comes close to fitting the prompt.

The Ailurophile

At birth,
I mewled at the breast
like a kitten
and dug into engorged skin
with barely sheathed claws.
Milk drops caught in my whiskers.

When I was still but a child,
an austere assemblage
voted and vowed
to bob my tail,
but I fought,
got away,
and could not be caught.
I left my sisters,

my mother,
and my father
to lives of bucolic boredom,
while I grew
wild,
comely,
and into my heat.

Then, you.

You had big hands
and a good heart.
A well-trained dog
and a neatly trimmed lawn.
You captured me,
cured me,
caged me,
saved me.
You took my claws
and my heat.
You gave me treats
and nonsense love words
and a home.

Now, I brood at windows and grow fat.
I purr and slink circles around your legs.
I sleep in your bed beside you at night
and barely even twitch
when I'm dreaming

of taking your eyes.

A (meow) mix of Shawna's Melting Words for Open Link Night at dVerse

Face

I burned my mask and
planted the ashes to grow
myself a new face.

You called me crazy
until I bloomed: nightshade teeth,
honeysuckle eyes.

For Haiku Heights and
Open Link Monday at Real Toads

To Be Continued

I'm the hero of this little lore.
I've never been a damsel.

In chapter one,
I climbed from the pit
like ivy climbs a wall.
Every sinew straining,
hands full of thistle,
I cleared the edge
just as the first tongues of lava
licked the soles of my boots.
I survived for a time by
living in a lean-to on the beach,
eating eucalyptus leaves,
and drinking coconut milk.

In chapter four,
I found myself tied
to the trunk of a mulberry tree.
But I am liquid willow,
and with feline grace
I freed myself
before my fingers grew numb and useless.
Then, I blew through town like a tumbleweed
in a bad western.

Finally, in chapter nine,
I came face to face
with evil's spawn.
The imp stank of rye
and rot,
and I rammed my elbow
repeatedly
into regions best unmentioned
until I could flee
south
into the arms of the alto wind.

And, here I am.

I know sienna from burnt umber.
I know onyx from opal.
I have never bruised the peach
or bent the tulip's stem.
I wear miracles
like jade prayer beads on a string.

I am the hero of this little lore.
I have never been a damsel.

With Shawna's Bonus Words