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Thread: Accidents and Anecdotes

  1. #1
    Real-Life Vorticist
    Join Date
    Dec 2008

    Accidents and Anecdotes

    "In essence of the more impoverish nature
    from which we dangle tongues hot with succession
    and twenty two caliburs of excess, we find
    hopes dashed as candle wax
    upon growing pains and glass.

    So, as situation speaks solemn into the ears
    of an aristocrat with closed throat and more
    whim than air, the lungs of our despair, the grapes
    and the wrath, and the burning sensation tickling
    the morning news, all fade into one thousand murmurs

    and your pulse."

    Upon entering the slow churn of an axelled automobile the hum of one thousand jailbird choked tears could not help but strangle the senses, as well as any idea of the place that choked anything less than a last half

    ing on the railing as though entering a steel paradise she moved her fingers as she'd move her lips to refrain from asking why she'd acted twenty two and aging since she was fourteen, and how she'd come to see jailbirds talons as the only fading memorance of a father fraud God she'd ever had
    warm and silent in her

    death, upon the rocks of a distant and ancient church made as Bel Lugosies tomb and tale she'd notice how the bell
    it's slow toll
    it's rocking motion gently reminding her of a whisper given at bedside, she kneeled there to wish her only daughter solace from a monster wrapped in the closest closets of her silent heart.

    Like the staircase, like her mother, she moaned and released
    death kneeling bedside, this time
    a blackenned angel in the sky.

    She had been a child finding the wrinkles of her grandmothers hand remiscent of a seashore's bite and soft sand, the callous created soft cracks of patch where
    a smooth cottonsilk could be found
    if pressed for, if really pressed.

    "What is it?" She admired as she watched her arms catch the color of an old window-stain.
    "It's an angel." Her Grandmother pursed her lips and pressed her hands and kneeled.
    "What's an angel?"

    "A sign of redemption." And that's all she wrote.

    Feeling cheated.

    He raises a cigarette to his lips, might as well have been a hookers hips, and drew deep that bleached smell of shaved rat that allowed him to feel fresh in the morning, despite the sway of stagnation, a hollow empty
    that allows followed before and after
    the napalm.

    Drenched in acid, he was scribbling now as frantically as he could, trying to express his intangible anxiety as it woke, that morning, next to his bed, with his half empty pack of cigarettes, his half lucid prostitute, and his half full heart. Maybe the circulation, the suffocation, the intoxicated rant of bullet ballad and brittle bone finally pierced his skull,
    though hardly leaving a mess like his comrades,
    sulking and stupid on the jungle floor. Their smell
    sulking and stagnant
    stupid crutched and ****ed
    in the jungle air

    with the napalm dancing in funnels
    reverberating from helicopter blades
    hanging, stagnant, 20 feet
    from the fleas and anthills
    "of war"

    "Of war." He spoke slowly and swallowed with a whiskey cough, he had drank too many that day, that night, that year.
    "Of war." He spoke again, reaffirming, allowing his inflect to infect
    more than the reality of his words, slipping
    "It's not a game." He spoke, smiling.
    "It's not a card game, it's not a sleight of hand, it's not some cheap trick or telegram they fed you till you feed it to yourself. There is the tangible dirge of alcohol and power drunk madness that runs through those jungles with you, next to you
    pulling your trigger and kissing you softly, when you sleep, when you press your fingers through your eyelids
    and sleep..." His heart

    Was alive. Wired, his skin stood on end as a smooth hand found it's way down his treasure trail
    to tease his thighs and tickle his half pants short with

    "Honey I, I" And she silenced his lips and bit down. It was America, he was young, and she was tall and golden in a pale light seldom gifted to those who do not attend such nigthside tramples
    of lingering love and
    hanging cieling fans

    like helicopter blades, round and round, the blades breaking silence, allowing voices to rest into pillows and nets of tesla tangled hair,
    allowing screams to settle into landmines and dirtnaps.

    He kissed her, slowly, in their kitchen,
    it was small, but they were trying

    "Hypocrite" hot off his lips, hesitant, distant, lost
    in some sandtrap, lush
    some slow clap crushed
    by helicopter blades and sirens.

    Rain fell,
    smoke rose.

    And the plume of a mushroom cloud could be called the only sinister speck of imperfection
    left upon the horizon.

    (An attempt at distorting continuum using poetic and narrative devices.)

  2. #2
    I really like it, 0=2. You should submit it to a poetry journal/contest

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