Sunday 1/28/2007 01:05:00 AM

There were sidewalks.
And shoulders.

Close enough to name.

There was the pervasive pretense of metaphor to pluck the poetry from my fingers. While we tested the flavors still remaining on our tongues. Chocolate covered condoms wrapped in the thin foil of eager wastebaskets. Children I'd never have suffocating inside a tiny plastic reservoir.

Men I'd never see again writing their phone numbers on my walls. Little stabs of art punctuating what passes for life when goodbye knows you better than you do yourself.

Thousands of leeches turning this flesh into a smorgasbord.

Prick said...

You, the one who might be here after me, she's prolific. Very. Stay, you'd never get bored, not get done reading. I'm telling you, you who might be here after me, because she does not stop to see these things. She's too busy with her smorgasbord.

Also, I'm secretly in love with her words, but don't tell her. She must never know, for love is weakness, and I have none.

RuKsaK said...

Can't believe it - I commented and it's gone. I said something like the following:

Prick has many weaknesses and chocolate covered condoms are a particular penchant of his. That is perhaps why is weak at the knees with your writing. Then again, what kind of soulless beast wouldn't be?

alcoholic poet said...

don't know how to respond.

the two of you appear to have this weird banter going on (more prominent elsewhere) which i don't totallt get.

it is amusing though.

my grief is rigid. a corpse. nothing left to pity. but i suppose some can secretly relate to mourning its loss.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.