The porcupine Quill prompt 6 NAPOWRIMO

Today’s (optional) prompt is ekphrastic in nature – but rather particular! Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem from the point of view of one person/animal/thing from Hieronymous Bosch’s famous (and famously bizarre) triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights. Whether you take the position of a twelve-legged clam, a narwhal with a cocktail olive speared on its horn, a man using an owl as a pool toy, or a backgammon board being carried through a crowd by a fish wearing a tambourine on its head, I hope that you find the experience deliriously amusing. And if the thought of speaking in the voice of a porcupine-as-painted-by-a-man-who-never-saw-one leaves you cold, perhaps you might write from the viewpoint of Bosch himself? Very little is known about him, so there’s plenty of room for invention, embroidery, and imagination. 

The Porcupine Quill
I shuddered as I saw myself being lead under a ladder,
by a masked man, and taken into a tiny cabin with a narrow cot,
 covered with a duvet, frayed at the edges and malodorous, ugh !
The narrow cot was tottering too.
Was this my final rendezvous?
Did Death await me in some dark corner? I had no clue.

 There were cobwebs all around,
I was astounded as the masked man flung me on the cot,
muttering some malediction.
  Taut nerves coupled with a nervously ticking heart,
I cowered on the cot, lamenting my lot.
Adjusting his mask, the man left the room.
 I lay on the cot, looking around, when some shrill words
fell into my ears, “We escaped, we escaped.”  
A twelve legged clam and a fish wearing a tambourine on its head
were peering at me. I shuddered anew.
Who …..are…. these monstrosities?
“We escaped from The Garden of delights,
did not want to be part of Bosch’s bizarre world”.
The two gushed in one voice of triumphant glee.
“And, don’t you dare call us   monstrosities.
 We are the figment of Hieronymous Bosch’s fertile creativity.
 He was idiosyncratic like hell”.
Then came a   weird animal with some needle- like barbs,
muttering in a soft, treacly voice.
“Cut down on your carbs, confront your vulnerabilities.  Fie! Fie!
O foolish human, you hardly exercise, why are you so keen to die?

 Would it use its quills to kill me?  
“Can you shoot your quills?” My voice quivered.  
“Here is one, if you are so keen.” Pulling out a quill,
the porcupine handed it to me.
“Now, go wash your hands.”  

“There is no water here, no synthesizer.”
 “You mean sanitizer?”
“It is the nerves, you know………”

“Mind you, look your shortcomings straight in the eye,”
With this Parthian shot it bid me good bye.
The clam and the fish reconfigured themselves in some other bizarre form,   
just when I glimpsed Willy Wonka escaping through a crevice
in the graffiti- scarred wall.
 “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” I read etched on the wall,
as I fell from the bed, flailing my arms.
 I picked up the porcupine quill, and wrote this bizarre tale.