Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: Fat Hookers Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Saturday 6/09/2007 11:56:00 PM

Wolves in the courtyard. The smug grin of hungry beasts. Like the attitude of forgiveness all lives scar. The stick of needles drugged with false cures for imaginary diseases. The crying clown. With its white tears. The orgasms of gods to entertained to care.

In the short hairs. In the tragedies we call lives. Every face a poison that's taste is worth dying to know. In years thick with the briefest of heavens. I'm still an atheist. Ready to face the nothing that comes after.

Dying is birth. Pain is happiness. And goodbye is forever.

Sorting through that grim fairy tale. Death is a only technicality. Hell is wondering what they meant. Did they say it because you wanted to hear it. Or was it really how they felt.

In the summer we wait for the winter. In the winter we long for the heat. In love we sink ourselves. Fleshy, heavy anchors into a chaotic ocean of people. As if there is a bottom. Something below the surface to keep us together.

Have you ever seen the fat hookers in Amsterdam pitching out their buckets of cum? Have you ever wondered if sex was the closest you'd ever get to god?

Brian said...

maybe this is too forward but... I think the ending of this is close to you want it to do, but not quite. I wondered if putting these two questions (or least one of them) elsewhere in the poem would do a better job. anyway, something to think about...

alcholic poet said...

intersting insights.

i'm going to partially agree with you and say maybe they shouldn't be phrased as questions. at least not both. maybe neither.

but i wouldn't separate them. the one thought is the catalyst for the next.

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