Poem
To put players in the proper surreal noir mood, I have written the following poem: A Devil's Threeway With Trouble Private eye, behind my desk, legs crossed, door opening, the bell rings. She wears black leather boots, a blue winter coat, prismatic scarf, and mid-length auburn ha
To put players in the proper surreal noir mood, I have written the following poem:
A Devil's Threeway With Trouble
Private eye, behind my desk, legs crossed, door opening,
the bell rings.
She wears black leather boots, a blue winter coat,
prismatic scarf, and
mid-length auburn hair.
The amorphous ashtray on my desk
extinguishes my cigarette, a lump
of burned clay swallowing the flame.
"Nice ashtray," she says.
"Gift from your son?"
Gift from my childhood self.
"Raku pottery," I say.
"Heated quickly, removed
red hot, cooled in open air.
Unpredictable patterns in the glazing."
Tracing them with my finger. She takes
the tray, inspecting.
"Fascinating."
Specks of ash spill onto the desk, some
still glowing.
Two officers burst through the door,
guns drawn. Old vet
and young cadet.
"You," sneers the vet.
"Trouble follows you."
"Trouble's an old friend," I say.
"We never got along," he says.
"Trouble doesn't like cops."
"Neither do you!"
"That's why we're friends!"
"Get a room!" says
the cadet, eyes rolling.
"Do a devil's threeway with trouble."
"Trouble's a woman?" she asks, eyebrow
lifting, ashtray gleaming.
"Of course!"
we agree, unanimously.
Trouble enters the room, resolving
the situation, in a whirlwind
of violence and regret,
her perfume lingering.
When they are gone, my ashtray
lies shattered on the floor.
Trouble lights my cigarette.
"Sorry, sweetheart." Her voice,
the sultry rumble of rumpus.
I assemble the pieces into
a cornucopia of color and chaos.
"No bother,"
I say.
"The glaze awakens."
- Simon Christiansen