Little Red Riding Hood, a sketch done to be collaged into a journal for the Circle Jerks round robin, colored with Prisma pencils and marker I love darker versions of fairy tales. I have not decided which of the following 3 poems I will use for the journal spread, Perhaps all 3. I'm pleased with the way she came out.
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Red Riding Hood had a pretty good time with the wolf
by KarenDaly
Because maidens
Burn
Like celluloid,
They fitted
Me
With a
Hood,
A
Fire-fighting
Talisman
For
My own
Inner blaze.
And yet
We reciprocate
Like conversation,
Tongues embracing
Teeth
And appetites
In
Private riot.
My forest-dog,
My liege,
My gentleman
King Kong
Lights up
An
Amazon boudoir
(Two women
The
Same night!)
He hushes
My manners,
Uncapes me
With
A God's
Hairy hand,
Imperative
As sex
And
As sweet
As darlings
New-found
And thumbling
In ears
The remembrance
Of
What ever
Was.
He perished
In my
Second birthing,
In my
Learning
Of the
Purest heresy
Of
Blood and guts.
Now
I keep
My strangers
Strained,
But sometimes
Even
The moon
Looks like
A man
In a dress
``````````````````````````````````````````````
The Coup de Grace
by Edward Rowland Sill
(1841–87)
Just at that moment the Wolf,
Shag jaws and slavering grin,
Steps from the property wood.
O, what a gorge, what a gulf
Opens to gobble her in,
Little Red Riding Hood!
O, what a face full of fangs!
Eyes like saucers at least
Roll to seduce and beguile.
Miss, with her dimples and bangs,
Thinks him a handsome beast;
Flashes the Riding Hood Smile;
Stands her ground like a queen,
Velvet red of the rose
Framing each little milk-tooth,
Pink tongue peeping between.
Then, wider than anyone knows,
Opens her minikin mouth,
Swallows up Wolf in a trice;
Tail going down gives a flick,
Caught as she closes her jaws.
Bows, all sugar and spice.
O, what a lady-like trick!
O, what a round of applause!
from An American Anthology, 1787–1900 (1900).
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````
The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'
by Agha Shahid Ali
First, grant me my sense of history:
I did it for posterity,
for kindergarten teachers
and a clear moral:
Little girls shouldn't wander off
in search of strange flowers,
and they mustn't speak to strangers.
And then grant me my generous sense of plot:
Couldn't I have gobbled her up
right there in the jungle?
Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?
As if I, a forest-dweller,
didn't know of the cottage
under the three oak trees
and the old woman lived there
all alone?
As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?
And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,
now my only reputation.
But I was no child-molester
though you'll agree she was pretty.
And the huntsman:
Was I sleeping while he snipped
my thick black fur
and filled me with garbage and stones?
I ran with that weight and fell down,
simply so children could laugh
at the noise of the stones
cutting through my belly,
at the garbage spilling out
with a perfect sense of timing,
just when the tale
should have come to an end.
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Life is good!
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