Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: Patents on If Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Friday 1/23/2009 12:45:00 AM

One ghost. Maybe two. Scratching at her thigh. The gods sneeze and we are gone.

I left the key on the doormat for the wolves to find. That old door letting in predators of every sort. The madmen on the rooftop. Proclaiming that they know. How to fly. With their capes of blood and bone.

Maybe they do. But I don't believe them.

One lie to tell. Maybe more. The key. Only those shadows in the drawer when I open it. And find nothing new. Her eyes are gumdrops. Seldom hints at what she was. Her lips are chewing gum. All the flavor gone. Her legs are catapults. I am the boulder.

That broke the glass. Held the door open. While she conversed with ghosts.

Bribing them with pussy. Blinding them with tits.

Working the machine as if the switch isn't broken. Or that it would matter. If the ghosts could find her.

The gods chasing her bras straps in an infinite loop.


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