The Secret Life of The Gomorrean Teenager

Over at D'Verse, Anna hosted Poetics last evening.  Unfortunately I couldn't make it to the party last night, but I couldn't miss out on such a worditious affair.  Stop on over, read the wonderful pieces linked up, and while you're there, join on in the fun.

Being a teenage boy,

is difficult in and of itself—

         Yet

being a bit on the

mawkish side, certainly

didn’t help matters much

         and so…enter

those cruel, terribly cruel

children, that would incessantly

stir upon his sentimentality, urging him,

into what they determined, all

by themselves that is, that

tears

were and still are, the mark of an effeminate

Ellen, and regardless of what could

be said, nothing would be convincing,

short of the quite exhaustive manage

a octuor, performed upon the forty-five

yardline, in front of a capacity crowd,

just moments before the homecoming

would commence —

With the ripeness of fireworks

still emancipating the testosteronic air-

waves of hungry adolescents, only

seeking for any sign, that

the apocalypse is assuredly

close at hand—

and even then, not everyone

would be convinced

                                    Coming from a very traditional Reich of a family, particularly among the male members of the lineage, any break

from how things are, have been, is inexcusable, motive or reasoning aside, for they simply don’t matter much, as in their eyes, all such derivations from tradition, are nothing more than that of a stain, one that will forever taint the forward progression of kindred history…yet

Something must be changed, an alteration of some sorts needed to occur, and despite being the latest descendant in a long and storied line of dicks, it just made sense to have a go at simply being rich

Not that this would help much, but it

was a beginning, and it was either that

or giving in to all the social perceptions

upon his person, regardless how incorrect

they were…

And so, the next day,

after the one that just concluded,

not including the weekend crammed in-between,

he walked to school, head held-up, and those steps,

concrete under feet, brimming

with newfound confidence and self-referential charm

And this time, he felt the gasp of power, pulsing, throbbing

through his engorged veins, straining but only momentarily,

and ass those old wooden doors were swinging wide, his nemesis no longer had control, and the widest grin, glowed an aura he’d never known, as each his rubbered sole, placed their footholds

up on into the warmth within

People would treat him differently now, this he knew and understood

better than anything he ever knew before…

Mawkish comes from the Norse

word Mathkr, which conveniently

translates to maggot in the

English tongue—

which, of course, his knowledge of such

trivia, probably does’nt entirely advance the

matters much; to which, perhaps, just probably,

perhaps, the cockiness exuding through him then

and there, was all a little bit premature