Sunday 2/25/2007 12:29:00 AM

By then everything is damp. And it all feels cold. Braids of vicodin throughout the mattes in her hair. She looks at us with exaggerated pupils. She laughs. A malignant ballad through the tremble in her lips.

Picking stabs from the vein like ready fruit. Turning solids into juice. With bashful hammers that want to wait. For a better time to kill. With open bottles unafraid to take the stage and sing along with the stale karaoke life farts out.

Dying melodies stabbing through the guts of a sentimental song. In the voices of characters we used to claim were ours. In the thick black outlines cartoons draw around their victims.

villains. everyone.

We watched the second hand have its stroke.

An old man. Someone's grandfather. Tearing off their diaper and shitting everywhere.

RuKsaK said...

i had to read this one a few times to get an angle on it. not that i have to get an angle on it, but it just wasn't as immediate as most of your stuff. i mean, this might sound wierd and hypocritical coming from me, but the fart and shitting caught me off guard. a much more bitter, but hapharzard tone to this one than most of your others. did i like it? sure i did. did i think it was as good as you can be? no, not really. sorry.

alcoholic poet said...

no need to be sorry. can't always be at one's best.

the nasty stuff - the shit and farts was obviously not my usual style and perhaps came off as a bit forced.

it amuses me to wonder would you have liked it more were it written by someone else - someone to whom it seemed to belong to better.

more often than not the burden of finding beauty falls upon the reader more than the writer. don't you agree?

Prick said...

The shitbrick would have liked it if I had written it.

Even more so if he had written it himself.

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