Burlesque

This simple poetic structure relays a humorous outlook on rather serious subjects such as, but not limited to; death, murder, marriage, and/or political upheaval.

An example would be:

Taid and Earth

Taid was laid to rest outside his home in Tulsa. Just a few feet from the place where he was stabbed 4 times. Ground slit and turned over just like the corpse laid within. It smelled of death, and looked dull and lifeless. Earth still moist, and temperate to the touch.

Ironic, in a way, since Taid suffered aichmophobia, the fear of knives and other sharp objects. His body soiled with moister, from the resent fallen rain; And Dirt, The very earth on which he now would be covered. His body so useless. To think it would be months before the person who commited the crime would return to give back what the earth had given.

A death is so unfortunant, you stop to mourn Taid, but who is there to mourn the earth? By now the sun has set on the mound, drying the pile that holds the corpse. Reaching it's long fingers and parching the grains layered aimlessly together. A man wearing a baseball cap wipes his brow at the lingering sun. dropping salt elixer onto the dirt he has just molested, and creased. His eyes squinting, and his teeth blazing through the outcome of what he has just done. He squeezed his hand around a shovel, and sighed. His breath was horse from all the hard work put into covering such a body.

Course you have to take into the consideration that this man loved his hobbies, but his hobbies rarely loved him. Seven years had went by, and Taid his latest victim was his fondest. He took good care with the best of the best for Taid. No matter how far and how much, this man loved Taid. But like the last Six, Taid eventually met an un-timely death. The man would rack his mind over how with the first few. But he had a knack for killing. So eventually, he was consumed with time. How long before the unfortunant, How long before? Each time he drew it out a little longer, and got good at reviving, so he could torcher the victim longer, and longer.

Poor Earth, concealing this man's abilities, and in-abilities all in the same. How glamorous are you to take the bile, and the blame at the same time? False greens cover your dark secret, and yet the birds sing to your glory, for you hide their lunch. How eager, are you to greet the man, who rarely cuts your hair, or trims your bush? How happy are you to see the grimace on the man's face as he carries out his latest victim. How loud a song the birds must sing, to see the body? Knowing the worms will feast? The poor man, who lives a lone. His life revolving like the earth; slowly, isolated, and constantly dealing with life, followed by death.

His hands show the error of his ways. Early mornings working hard up-rooting vegetables, and cutting them to put into his stomach. Then later to return not so far from the scene, to lay the untouched bodies, and other eaten body parts close to the full view of the on-looking garden.

Which brings me to my point? Do vegetables have feelings?



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I am sorry I am tired and in a weird mood, I thought this was funny as hell, when I was writing it!