Dead ol' Dad

Too young to breathe in Whiskey horrors,

Mixed drinks, neo nightmares and a flattened father upon cold grey linoleum

I remember crying ashes,

Blown like dust into the fire places of the soul, a tiny voice left to fly through the byways of magical imagination and wishing if I closed my eyes tightly I could change my destination

Face dirty, pants pissed,

Listening to the rumble grumbling of a sleeping titan, his face pasted to the gleam

Crude bruises on momma’s neck remain uninspected

I suspected we’d remain unprotected because the shield lay fractured

Please, don’t wake up

Black devils dance through the basement of dreams, becoming one, forming together as the blight of abuse and mistrust

No family portraits, only a portrayal of broken purpose

Proposals of pain and projected prognosis of the hopeless

He stirs, I grab Mama’s leg and she winces

Forehead kiss of agony, anticipating tragedy

Tragically expected the next round of misery

The next round of misery brings with it thoughts that cut jaggedly

And jaggedly my veins burn up in suspenseful alchemy

I hear it

I hear it

Momma whimpers

He rises like 100 heads with 100 crowns on them, reborn oblivion obliterating small breaths that escape from lungs pasting the walls in flies and plague

A slew of curses slung in satantic verses and God is too busy to bother

I remember the distinct sound of popping hair follicles

“Does this hat cover up the bald spot sweetie? Tell mommy the truth”

I picked flowers

Of glass from Momma’s back

Watched as Disney vacations comingled with blood drip down the tubes into a sewer to dance in the waves of leftover laughter of happy family dinners in a graveyard of forgotten purposes and poses

I remember wringing my hands

Zipping and unzipping my jacket

While watching the heaving, heavy breathing back of dear old dad demon

Lay intoxicated mutilating man sized punches,

Crushing bone to cracked crust

Mashing to ashes

Trust to dust

For better or for worse

In sickness and in health

We play empty handed because that’s the hand that’s dealt

 There’s a hum of electricity, playing under music for the soundtrack of disjointed heartbeats, sweat flecks leave beats upon the pages of a suicidal symphony, Brawny cleans the rest and into the trash can goes the evidence of another fight night brought to you by Jim Beam

Punctuated by a single lamp flickering out life’s light

 

Author's Note

keep your tears to yourself, no one needs em

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

My tears are mine to use as I see fit. They cry for the boy. He is the only one deserving sympathy, caught in this maelstrom of fucked-up adult conflict. And how well you have represented the turmoil in your telling of this all too familiar scenario. Father as Greek-style monster, mother as helpless as any Sabine woman and son, too young to be a hero. It is epic, and deeply personal, which is why it's brilliant.

[roarke]

There's always the aftermath. You learn to hold your breath, stop your heart, block the fearful thoughts until your body crumbles. The inevitable comes, the mental slashes of no-sense horror, the volume, the hateful volume and the panic tears, flooding the face, drowning the soul and then the aftermath. The sweeping of pieces under the rug, the look-the-other-way-truth-wash, the cold walk to school with lead bricks in your head.
What the right hand giveth, the left takes away, one step forward, one backward and you find it results in a circle, a never ending cycle, a misguided, misrepresented, mis-shappen view that lodges in the throat like shards of bone, choking down the screams of frustration, and anger and hate and sorrow and helplessness.... truth is truth, I guess if you survive it, it makes what's left of you stronger.

[robyn.alexandra]

Is the fact I gain joy from this a little weird? No matter the topic, there are few pleasures as great as reading your work, no matter the poison; they are escape, if I could pour your rhymes into my coffee, I'd be shitting fire and brimstone between playing undertaker and mumbling satanic verses outside the kindergarten gates. Like salt to wound, these words are both a drag to the past and a kick towards forgetting.
"A slew of curses slung in satantic verses and God is too busy to bother

I remember the distinct sound of popping hair follicles"

"I picked flowers

Of glass from Momma’s back

Watched as Disney vacations comingled with blood drip down the tubes into a sewer to dance in the waves of leftover laughter of happy family dinners in a graveyard of forgotten purposes and poses"

This is how we f*****g do it.

[Poetic Beauty]

No tears from me on this one. It simple pisses me off when people have to go through this kind of fucked off misery. One mother f****r put his hands on me and it was the first and last time and he even has the balls to show up at my work from time to time. I stare at him as if he is nothing more than gutter garbage and refuse to wait on him. Life is full of bullshit that makes us who we are and gives us strength to move on. Creativity is a great escape from the night terrors of life. This is loud in your face no holds bars reality that many live.