Thursday June 27th, 2013

The exercise:

Write about: the spray.

This evening I went out and took care of all the weeds that were hassling our cabbage plants. Then I gave the plants an organic spray to help them fend off potential pests.

Felt rather productive, really.

I think we're getting close to being on top of the weeds again. The garden is looking much better than it did a week or so ago, at any rate.


It clings to me
Like a bothersome ex,
Or the stench of
Instantly regretted sex.

I've yet to find
A soap powerful enough
To vanquish it,
Though I scrub till my skin sloughs.

Leave me alone!
I do not deserve this pain!
I shall never
Tease a stupid skunk again!


Anonymous said...

So in the war of you versus the weeds you're definitely coming out on top then? That sounds good, and will no doubt keep the garden happy and friendly too! I guess you must compost all the weeds, given how much land you've got to add compost too :)
The rhythm of your poem today is quite interesting; it's a bit stop-start and jerky, which I quite like, and I think fits well when we reach the end and find out what is clinging and why. Nice work!

The spray
The shower had been declared unfit for use after the Green Lightbulb had decided to irradiate the water-tank that fed it. Dr. Septopus was still trying to ask questions to find out where a water-storage tank had come from, since they were in the middle of the Aquakitty Sanctuary for Feline Psychopaths, but every time he got close enough to the conjoined Green and Red Lightbulbs to start asking some giant cat would start purusing him again. He noted, with some satisfaction, that he was much thinner and fitter than he had been before they started the team-building exercise.
"This is not a shower," said Sylvestra sounding resigned. This is a plant-mister. It is, at best, a spray. And a short-lived one at that."
"Well yes," said the Red Lightbulb. "But you can undress and I can spray you with it until your clea–" He was cut off by the unmistakable sound of something solid and heavy hitting soft flesh. Dr. Septopus winced. That sounded like a week's worth of bruising.
"That was my arm!" yelled the Green Lightbulb. Dr. Septopus noted idly that he didn't sound in much pain. "Hit him, not me! If you took your clothes off in front of me I'd throw up!"
Dr. Septopus didn't even wince at the sound of violence this time. It was just all too predictable.

Marc said...

Greg - generally we just leave the weeds between the rows, where they eventually get tilled in.

Hah, I should have known that this prompt would bring us back to this group. Good fun here, as usual with this lot :D