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Literature Text
Straight up, my friend:
that's the only way to drink a poem.
I raise my glass,
I know the drink, I know the game.
I don't want
your fancy blends,
mingled scents
a wine that doesn't know how to touch my mouth!
I raise my glass
and when I drink I understand.
My poison knows its purpose
and if you offer me your cup,
yours had better know it, too,
'cause I don't want to die confused,
amused, abused?
I choose
another death:
straight up, my friend,
straight up.
that's the only way to drink a poem.
I raise my glass,
I know the drink, I know the game.
I don't want
your fancy blends,
mingled scents
a wine that doesn't know how to touch my mouth!
I raise my glass
and when I drink I understand.
My poison knows its purpose
and if you offer me your cup,
yours had better know it, too,
'cause I don't want to die confused,
amused, abused?
I choose
another death:
straight up, my friend,
straight up.
Literature
Bipolar
I.
A dove into a mirror;
A crow into a tree.
II.
There is a word missing.
Literature
The Encounter at Elsie's
It's a rough hand at my shoulder and I'm being dragged, thrown really, out the front door.
Right away I recognize her pet. The cloth over his mouth moves, but the blast was too close and I shake my head, pointing to my ear. He understands. He grips my arm with a hand of ice, firm and clinical, doing his job as ordered; and drags me to the side of the establishment with an urgency that has little to do with my preservation. I can't hide my amusement at that fact, dire as our situation may be. Abruptly I am thrown, shoved too hard into the shadows and against the wall, my verte
Literature
Matchmaking
For her the summer days are long. She is small and sweet, a cube of caramel with an aching aftertaste that lingers for ending too soon. Her arms and legs are pliable as grass, and as grass she swells like a sea with the wind saturating her hair. She is one of the movers who cannot dance, but were meant to, from a tight core low in the abdomen; and she walks the sidewalk on the diagonal, a magnet pulled to a dimly lit room with the bhh-bhh-bhh of good hip-swaying rock 'n roll.
He rides the subway at night, beats rhymes into the stretched skin of the drum. He is an eagle fledgling, long-haired and brown eyed. His pants are red and h
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A short spoken word poem that I wrote on 30 June 2011. You could say that I was inspired by Mark Maslow.
© 2011 - 2024 irvon
Comments66
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Ooooh, that was good.