Popple

By
this is a creative piece about Jeff Koons Statue Popple


The Inner Popple
Nowadays, no one takes me seriously. I attribute their attitudes to my name; I mean not many people, let alone popples, truly appreciate the name Puggles. My friend Twitter, who never leaves my right-hand side, suggests that perhaps my odd color scheme or even my yarn like hair cause the masses to stare through me, analyzing every fiber of my being. Pure poppycock I retort as I remember my previous life. Living in a Technicolor world, proves quite extraordinary. I awake to a royally purple sun rising against a pleasantly radiant sky. The smell of snigglydrops (my favorite flower) wafts through the dewy air. Flibberburts and jigglywills fill the community with joyous noise as the multitudes of popples emerge and jubilantly begin to go about their ways. I frolic through the ever-changing iridescent grasses until I arrive at Gumpleton, the capital of Someroni, an island inhabited purely by popples. Our chief, Mugglewump, initiates our biannual assembly with the National Anthem entitled “Suva re Nicho”, which is written in Poppleese. After the squeaky voices of my brethren die down, we discuss many hot topics such as our sister nation, occupied by our close relatives the Care Bears, what day St. Diddleskin will grace us with his presence this year, and what shall we name our new mall, which I am overjoyed to hear contains a Nordstrom’s. After a pleasant recess in which I rejuvenate myself with tea and crumpets, we reassemble, bur now things have changed. An uneasy tension fills the air. Every eye turns toward me, piercing my soft fluffy coat. Then I freeze. They know. I thought I could keep up the charade but I appear to have failed. In Someroni, no two popples may produce profuse amounts of perfume, but over the past year my lover, Liverhern, and I bottled and bartered over twenty-six thousand bottles of our purely pungent fragrance, Odiar. With two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I became banished from my homeland. Mugglewump only sends the hardcore criminals to the special place where I reside now. I stand on a bitter pedestal with blinding light continuously dousing my body like ice water. Day after day slick pale humans stop and gaze upon my foreign physique, pondering my origin. If only they knew. If only they could experience true beauty, the glorious beauty of a truly Technicolor world.





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tagfolyfe said...
Nov. 17, 2011 at 4:03 pm
This is literary genius. 
 
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