Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: The Prime Directive Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Sunday 10/14/2007 01:16:00 AM

Life. In orgasms too brief. Holes in the hat on her head. Driven like kittens' claws through the first layer of bruises. The word is the ladder. The touch is the fall. The heart is quicksand. Serpents. And soldiers. Design this happiness we call war.

The penguin. Frets the water just long enough to conquer. The bullet fucks the chamber. Children are everywhere. Life is. Ours to belittle. With so much of it.

He sells. Whatever he can. He sells teddy bears in pink, pink beds. He sells mothers to Viagra men. He pokes the rooster and convinces it to wake us up even though it's still dark.

Yellow windows count the steps between the sun and her bed. Years to die. Moments to live. She keeps her eyes closed until something sees her. The monsters or the angels. She doesn't know which. All candy chewed before. All empty wrappers. And teeth she can't prove belong to her.

I can't sleep anymore anyway. With the back door always unlocked. I just close my eyes and try very hard not to wake up ever again.

So little seems to matter. Since everything's become real.

Whatever could save me shouldn't interfere.


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