Pixie | Jessica Wu

PROMPT: Pick a type of writing that you would normally never write if you can avoid it (poetry, essays, meeting notes, love letters, short stories, things that rhyme…) and write the beginning of such a text. You can do this seriously or ironically - exaggerated if you would like. (12 mins)

A little poem about the Pixies. They used to be my favourite band. If you’re a huge Pixies fan, you’ll see it’s littered with tons of references, stylistically, lyrically, maybe about them selling out… etcetera. I think I threw in a Smiths and Kyuss reference in too, just to round out some of my favourite bands. It’s written in a style I don’t typically adopt - silly and with inconsistent rhyme. I do typically write poetry but don’t incorporate rhyme this way.

I was inspired by a Pixies song playing in the background when I had no idea what to do with this prompt. Non-edited and nonsensical.

I can’t go on.
That’s the problem with this song.
It’s the -
Loud,
Quiet,
Loud,
that I’ve fallen out of love with.

Hip hip!
The riff comes down loud and fast.
Menacing, in fact.
To play with words and words are play;
But the trombone is here to stay.
He is a palace or shrine.
But it’s simply a palace of brine.
Shrimp and little ones.
Little fish, you’re coming undone.

Stop.
Her singing, ghastly and it comes from over there.
Puppet, ventriloquist playing.
Everything is shrill in my right ear.
I break my neck with a whirl, it cracks.
Still waiting for the screech of the sax.
The asinine,
It doesn’t need to make sense.

A gruffer male voice.
Keep on asking, those Five Whys?
A playful bass ball bounces and rolls down the aisle.
It’s met its match with a brand new tune.
We can always try this for a little while.
It never comes.

Slicing up eyeballs.
Relegated to nightmare scenes in my youth.
Is something I would now emblazon on my forearm.
Carved in with a fountain pen in a southern drawl.
I told myself it symbolized strength and charm.
Really, it’s just pretension and a vague reference to a film I’d never understood.
Pretty uncouth.

A little bit of Spanish.
Sprinkle it through and wash it up.
They’re all washed up.
And now they’re out.
It’s okay; genius strikes out.
The guitar is out of tune.
A playful lick, curved upwards.

Cymbals clang, like
Monkey.
Like Donkey.
She’s real okay.
Keep on shouting;
It’s lively. Not blithely.
And I’ll have to keep you in my stacks.
This is my last paycheque.