The Tip (Round 2)
Let's workshop this poem where two men, seemingly Crip affiliates, debate what constitutes going too far during a session with an infant prize paid for with fentanyl to a junky mom
Newer version: https://maistvanjr.substack.com/p/the-tip-round-3
This piece is unpublished
Photo: cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/the-new-face-of-fentanyl-addiction-kati-s-story-1.3766697
Miami edition!
Safe Space Report
Even if I was a right wing nut job, this poem would be vulgar and offensive. The language used is highly inappropriate. Yes, the language is quite powerful and evocative. You paint vivid scenes with your words, and the dialogue is highly realistic. However, the use of profanity is excessive and detracts from the overall quality of the poem. As a suggestion, perhaps you could explore other ways of conveying the intensity and emotion of the situation without resorting to profanity. And I mean seriously, how many times do I have to say it: poetry must rhyme. I will include a better version below. Furthermore, the subject matter of the poem is highly disturbing and raises serious concerns about the treatment of women and infants. I cannot condone any kind of abuse or mistreatment of women. I feel it's important that poems remain within the bounds of decency and avoid glorifying behavior that is harmful to others. Focus on constructive messages of morality.
I can think of no audience this is appropriate for. Anyone who does not find this triggering is himself triggering—a Nazi, in fact—and so would need to be lynched for the sake of good. Anyway, here is at least a rhyme version. As this version shows, you can keep the same content and still rhyme!
The Divide
Two affiliates engaged in fierce debate,
As if survival depended on a choice to make,
Between a water landing from a towering bridge,
Or facing a horde, duck-sized, a hundred at a ridge.
Around a sticky table, they stood entrenched,
Flushed with adrenaline, their arguments drenched,
Jeans sagging over a carpet of debris,
Cigar guts, burger wrappers, and lime's lost glee.
One brother, fentanyl's slave to the mother's heart,
Lay sedated, his pulse fading, torn apart,
He stood firm amidst the siren's blaring sound,
While innocence bubbled in the room's grimy mound.
"Big Bro, you talking 'bout taking her out!"
"How you think? She's sucking like there's a drought,
Got that instinct, just like our dear mom dukes."
"I'm talking scale. This ain't no child's ruse!"
Lost in their argument, they gripped a wriggling foot,
Thumb pressing soft on an arch, tender and put,
As if normal adults welcoming new life's start,
But their intentions veered, worlds torn apart.
The unspoken rule, affirmed by her tear,
Faded in the brother's mind, unclear,
"Trust, Young C," the elder brother said,
A faint echo of juvenile lore in his head.
"On God, Cuz. This shit can stretch wide and far."
"Nah, man, I ain't ready to go that far!
She ain't ready for a child in her life!"
"Shit can stretch, G. Just take it slow, no strife."
He sought arousal's refuge, with both feet in his grip,
Tempted by the teetering edge of their sexual trip,
"Just the tip," he pleaded, his desires on display,
"Look at her, craving chocolate, she'll take it any way!"