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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: octobral dragon that chewed on your narcosisdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: colbybradshaw
    ASL Info:    24,deep south, u.s
    Elite Ratio:    3.61 - 19/19/29
    Words: 601
    Class/Type: Poetry/Serious
    Total Views: 562
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4313



    Description:
       I had written this after a bad stint with life. Of course i always write but this is something i had handy and its my first post. its anti-bellum literature.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsoctobral dragon that chewed on your narcosisdots
    -------------------------------------------


    The morning is pain,
    The morning is the sounds of machines,
    rattling windows,
    shaking the topsoil of peace,
    from the field of your neglected,
    dustbowl.
    thoughts.

    The morning is an equation,
    a mathematical reckoning,
    a dealing with the obtuse,
    indigo nightmare,
    of reality.

    The morning is a dying horse,
    being beaten in the streets,
    the sun dripping down like melting brass,
    as the children peer out of their windows,
    and blinds are drawn surrepticiously.

    The morning is a glass half full,
    and ashtrays filled with derelict cigarettes,
    the ghost of yesterday,
    having silent conversations,
    casting furtive glances,
    at you,
    the intruder in the room.

    The morning is when you are half dead,
    and everything taste like saline,
    and chemicals,
    Breath like mustard gas,
    as you inhale,
    more smoke,
    and cough,
    tuberculosis moon calf posterboy.

    THe morning is poetry that bleeds,
    like black flame,
    onto the fuel,
    of the worlds nonchalance.

    The morning was a mask we wore,
    cold countenances,
    angular bones in faces,
    moving at high speeds,
    their hair not moving,
    suspended and lost,
    in some faux cryogenic fugue.

    The morning is an outlaw.
    gestating on the fruit it must bear,
    painful or pleasureable,
    it is all the same,
    the morning is an outlaw and so am i,

    The morning is a pretense,
    it was a lie that you created,
    to escape the ball and chain of yesterday,
    still the bars are all around you,
    did you expect to be free?

    The morning was the house lying on top of you,
    the outside to unbearable to fathom,
    the morning was lack of restraint,
    the morning was an apathetic god.

    The morning was a merciless pounding,
    blood in the ears,
    the morning is coppery taste of pennies,
    and a swish of the dry tongue.

    The morning ended,
    and the afternoon began,
    the sun escaped behind,
    the no count cloud,
    slate grey,
    and it hid itself,
    afraid to shine on the plebian narccicist,
    the afternoon is just,
    the leftover vagrancy of the mornings indiscretion.

    I walked out of the front door,
    I made a shadow,
    a cookiecutter shape,
    a silhouette that doesnt even show,
    a glimpse of whats inside,
    merely an outline,
    of a creature some call man.

    The night came and ate the sun,
    like a mayan priest,
    i lurk inside,
    fearing the jaguar god,
    fearing the darkness,
    fearing the loss of sight.

    Still you can hear the people,
    scurrying in the inky black fundament,
    of the jobless wednesday night,
    as retirees start stale novels,
    and lamps next to bedsides,
    click on,
    up and down the street,
    glasses are tilted down noses,
    children are on their knees,
    " Now i lay me down to sleep....",
    But even with god they need a nightlight,
    God is merely an adult nightlight,
    sometimes i click him on,
    for some ill lit reassurance,
    my mouth spitting out prayers,
    like dust gathered on the pages,
    of decoratives libraries,
    in doctors offices.

    It is not always sad,
    this gift of the night,
    sometimes the rubbery evening,
    sucks a smell from the earth,
    extracts the marrow of the soil,
    giving us the faintest idea,
    bringing the scent of the planets living corpse,
    to our five senses,
    eradicating both belief and doubt.

    In the dark,
    our spirits move unbridled,
    untamed succubi,
    sitting in the backseats of taxis,
    the fare keeps getting higher,
    I wonder if,when,or how,
    we arrive at our destination,
    will it be worth the price,
    will it be worth five pounds of flesh,
    but such is the night.





    Submitted on 2009-10-27 16:47:49     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Vivid words and well crafted thoughts. Great poem but here is what I think needs to change for this to truly ascend into something 'epic'.

    I would be more descriptive, add more imagery and tell more of a story than a list, I don't like the line format or the way it was separated, I think it gives it too much of a cliché look as if this is what a generic poem is going to look like. Stagger the lines and blur the thoughts, give it more of a mental edge, lead deeper into the mind write it as it was thought not write it how it 'should' look.

    -Dustin...
    | Posted on 2010-03-09 00:00:00 | by HisNameIsNoMore | [ Reply to This ]
      This is really strong, and it stands out from all the other things I've read. Keep writing things like this. I really liked the part about the morning ending and from there up.

    You did really well with your spelling and such.
    | Posted on 2009-10-27 00:00:00 | by alyssafrench16 | [ Reply to This ]


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