new year's day

it starts like this.

we're waiting for the clock.
and i am grateful for this drink.
but eventually,
after several more,
the glass slides from my fingertips
and lands with a satisfying crash.
what a waste of rum.

my skin begins to hum.

so i sit there in a puddle
trying to get around
the hard truth.
she doesn't look at me,
why,
she only has eyes for you.
and the clock keeps ticking.

as it swings round i try to find a bed
to sleep away the bottle.
but they'd prefer to have me
kicking over drinks
and really hoping i don't accidentally kiss
anyone.

so,
as i am wont to do,
we brawl.
away home,
i crawl.
and collapse in the streets
with hysterical laughter
bordering on;
"i think you're bipolar."
well f**k you f**k you f**k you.

maybe it's time we all moved on.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

(This review will take an unconscionably long time to get to its point, and it wishes to apologize up front)

If you want to be realistic, or deal with real life, and call it poetry, you run into some stumbling blocks from the get-go: You can't be doing just-the-facts reporting, because (if that's the tack you take) you end up with non-fiction without the "non". There's also the problem of writing about what you know--your own realm of experience--and making it universal, or at least expressing it in such a manner that you are reaching the reader and making it meaningful. In short, you need art with the reality--and, finally, we reach what is good about this piece and your writing in general. It is real life, yes, but filtered through the lens of good poetry, which lifts out of the realm of one's own life and into Life.