Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: Practical Poems Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Monday 8/04/2008 12:32:00 AM

Slow words fishing too long. In empty lakes. The colors were true. It was the bait that lied to us. I've had enough men. To be a woman any man would want. I've been silent. I've been loud. It's all the same. Touch like pantyhose. Tears easily. Leaves too much skin exposed.

Cocky men. Dicks wagging. Frail and obnoxious. Games of sex. Tiny Monopolies. Cheapen was she gave away. And all that she received. In her bed. Reveal the suspects. Pass go. Collect her. Masturbate. Imagine. Someone still wants. What you pretend to give.

Your words. Play money. Make you rich. Buy you nothing.

The old men. Penises in denial. Liars. Sad pricks. Boast. The edges of the woman. Fingertips of dolls. Wolves shouting through mediocre fangs. About how hungry they are.

I'm full of holes. None of which you can fill.

Old men. Virulent proposals. Thirsty dicks. Drink the puss. Dubious infections. Sicken the girl. Strengthen the woman.

Alone. Hopeless. I've been weak enough to recognize it in others.

The Mad Dog said...

Your dark passion and craft with words reminds me of my long missed friend/mentor, Monica...who was first among many to help me out of the pit by teaching me the craft of poetry.

alcholic poet said...

what a nice thought. i'm gladd you got out of your pit.

The Mad Dog said...

AP...I'm nowhere out of this perpetual pit. These abstractions are endless, you know? Out of one...into another. I'm always chasing my dark dreams across the sky.

alcholic poet said...

hmmm... in that case, at least you can write because you're in it.

spoiling the words that write us. until we can find a way to write them.

and even if, then what would be the point?

The Mad Dog said...

For AP...


i feel as though i've been crafted at
the malignant hands of an apprentice insane child of a god...what darkness awaits me as the sun expires and the storm quickens its pace?

murderous thoughts have returned and compartmentalized speech is is a veneered walk, empty and spacious
i have no dreams, no hopes, only screams as a bruised sky threatens to tear me away

i feed off the lives of others
wondering if i'll ever be happy again
because surely i remember truly smiling, laughing once before,
running through fields of poppies and daffodil and rose...lavender filling my nose, warm sands between my toes

now though there is only anger and melancholia
no moments sublime...only a torturous belief that it will all improve, a restraining fear lashing my hands from pulling a trigger and blowing myself back to the dust whence i came

i don't even want to cry, i can't remember what i've lost...only a vague memory of blood and smoke

-D.C. Massey

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