Monday 3/26/2007 12:14:00 AM

There's a word for what we were. If I only knew it. The dirty linens error makes of our trials. The satin sleeping bags we wrap the fondness in. Little black bags to doctor how long ago it mattered.

I'm only happy when I'm not myself. There was never anything to come between us except who I was.

We never ate a meal together. Never did anything other than fuck. Heads under the covers. Tongues on repeat. It was as if life was just a distraction.

And all the world was wrong except for us.

There are plenty of words for what we were. But I don't want to use them. Not again.

3 comments:
Poet Mutiso said...

Sometimes i go out of my way to write one poem that none of my fans expect. I was just wondering, "what if alcoholic poet wrote one happy poem? what would it be like?"

Am so curious I am ready to die for it...

alcoholic poet said...

now that you've issued me the challenge i shall have to try.

to keep it genuine however, the best i might be able to muster is humorously satirical.

we'll see.

scoots said...

I can't wait.. :-)



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