The Power of Poetry

POSTCARD FICTION

Saves your soul

The naked poet paces behind a bondage suit wearing mannequin, while whipping it with a cat-o'-nine-tails. He recites his latest tribute to Sulis Minerva. The crowd sways to the rhythm of the words.

At the back of the crowd, two serious looking men in white turtlenecks, tweed jackets, and Levis 501’s listen intently. Forcefully hip — almost too hip — they are smoking Gauloises, drinking negronis, and wearing berets; all the badges of belonging to this hip crowd. They nod their heads, to the poet’s rhythm, but never break a smile. Smiles are bourgeois. They hide their eyes behind their Ray-Bans, as did all the other spectators. No one wants the depths of their souls on display.

The taller man, speaking an unknown language, turns to his companion. “They call this poetry? We don’t need to worry about these degenerate fools. Their decadence will destroy themselves before they ever become a threat.”

They turn, in unison, and head to the door, stopping only to leave a generous tip in the poet’s jar.

“No need for play money back home on Proxima Centauri.”

I used Centina/Pentina’s weekly prompt as the basis of this story. The parameters required are the genre be Science Fiction, and I use the following words: gravity, pressure, thrust, contaminate, sex.

If you like this story, try a tale of survival.

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