Friday 2/09/2007 12:16:00 AM

Saturdays swell like sweated legumes. Church mice gnaw the altars. The presumption of sex makes us all gods under certain circumstances.

As evil as we want to be. In little steps. On soft ladders. Served by our failure.

I taste it as I bite my nails. The lips of reason growing fat. In tangles of sex. In fists full of afterwards. Calm peasants scrub the sheets they've only just woken up from. In little sobs they coax the stains out. To lay down and begin the bleeding anew.

I know what every color means. In the riddle every lover insists. In the ease that is hating.

The pouting lips of circumstance exact their wisdom.

From the remnants of who we've loved. Stale dartboards at the back of our throats seduce the silence. Until everything is better left unsaid.

GeL(Emerald Eyes) said...

(Here via RuKsaK's praise.)
Silent screams insde our heads. The presumed comfort of bed and sex as not being that at all. I can see and taste the (blues) blood. Even if you hadn't labeled this poem depression, the heavy tone to your finely written poem looms large from dreaded Saturdays to the ending unsaid.

Well-done to involve all of the senses so seamlesssly. I savored many a sentence here as much as the entire piece and read a few more.

RuKsaK said...

man! I shouldn't come here when I'm in the middle of writing something - you overwhelm and when I turn around, to look at what I've jotted down, the tide of your writing has swept it away.

Metaphor aside - this is excellent.

alcoholic poet said...

gel - thanx for stopping by. so flattered you liked what you read.

ruk - i often envy what you write. i think it's just the nature of artists. or at least for me, everything always seems better when it isn't my own.

by the way, i finally came up with a proper way to reciprocate for your recent gesture. it'll be in place shortly.

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