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Literature Text
The evening sweats
a bottle
rum dark
throttled by
daddy's hands
small feet drags
thirsty heart
outside
to swig the moon
a bottle
rum dark
throttled by
daddy's hands
small feet drags
thirsty heart
outside
to swig the moon
Literature
coffee talk
they speak in the
rattle of coffee cups—
sea bent lungs await the press
of the espresso crave lips
as taste fills curling limbs
settling the
stars
in—.
Literature
jamais
the truth, as staunch and without ornament
as I can make it,
is that I did not want your love,
your voice rattling like the hoary whispers
of stars;
your dreams (rustling like cattails
and half-extended to meet mine)
were as foreign to me
as moonlight, concealed
in its various robes.
your sucking fireflies,
neon mothish words meant to draw me in,
flurried uselessly about me.
but now that your attempted eloquence
is more akin to the wick of a lamp,
charred and drowning in oil,
I may vaguely nod my head.
Literature
november
the sun is a dim pearl
beneath a blanket of gray
hung low from the heavens;
i'm your yellow tremor
paled by the cold, aching
for a proper sunrise.
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I wanted this to be haiku but this came out instead.
My paternal grandfather was an alcoholic. He'd show up at church during Sunday School and wait until my class was done then call me outside and beg me fetch my dad. I was young but I'll always remember the way my father's face would change when I told him his father was calling for him-the look of disgust and annoyance. But he always went.
Without fail, grandpa would ask his son for money and daddy would always so no, as there was no question that the money would be spent at the nearest rum shop.
Saying no could not have been easy, especially when my grandpa would cry and carry on but no it had to be. For better or worse, my father loved his dad.
My paternal grandfather was an alcoholic. He'd show up at church during Sunday School and wait until my class was done then call me outside and beg me fetch my dad. I was young but I'll always remember the way my father's face would change when I told him his father was calling for him-the look of disgust and annoyance. But he always went.
Without fail, grandpa would ask his son for money and daddy would always so no, as there was no question that the money would be spent at the nearest rum shop.
Saying no could not have been easy, especially when my grandpa would cry and carry on but no it had to be. For better or worse, my father loved his dad.
© 2011 - 2024 leyghan
Comments55
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Heartfelt. I really like this.