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    dots Submission Name: The Love Apartment experimentdots

    Author: colbybradshaw
    ASL Info:    24,deep south, u.s
    Elite Ratio:    3.61 - 19/19/29
    Words: 417
    Class/Type: Poetry/Love
    Total Views: 503
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2740

       Simply something i scribbled in a few minutes while on narcotics and smoking a cigarette, bemoaning the death of a separation, both from a woman, and my child to be. Life is created to test the faith of men whether atheist or christian, and you will be sorely tested hence the poem. Our test as writers is to communicate what little bit we can. Possibly I have. More likely I havent.

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

    dotsThe Love Apartment experimentdots

    The money in your pocket,
    like debris,
    like worthless rubles in a fallen soviet state,
    the pictures in your wallet dog eared,
    they too,
    have depreciated in value,
    the lips you have once felt burning under the flesh of your skin,
    have turned as dry as a Polaroid,
    the voice of god is trying to speak to you,
    via the new cell phone in your drooping hand,
    eyes encrusted with the American dream,
    the beast in your liver has woke again,
    it moves ,
    you are pregnant with desire and it takes the form,
    of a cancer in the marrow of your brain tissue,
    there are no doctors,
    Only Mengele's,
    only angels of death,
    they live three doors down,
    a convenient jaunt,
    for the able bodied man,
    but whom of us is able bodied,
    the bell tolls in the streets,
    the shrift i will never take,
    my life is my testimony to the god we barely know,
    I imagine he smiles benevolently,
    but i imagine alot of things,
    or maybe he is just a counterfeit,
    spitting out promises in multiple holy books,
    to conflict,
    to disrupt,
    to suppurate the healing wound of world peace,
    gangrenous and salivating,
    visceral jaundiced,
    all these words come to mind,
    when i think of her beautiful face and,
    the day she left,
    empty cupboards and a note,
    a note that said nothing,
    just as well to be written in Cyrillic,
    Dear John,
    Dear Colby,
    Dear Nick,
    she signed it with the flourish of a well practiced conciliatory goodbye letter writer,
    Clothing scattered across the room,
    chalk outlines of dead bodies appear in my mind,
    the death of our love,
    which took place all over this house,
    I comb over it like a detective,
    like some Raymond Chandler misfit P.I.,
    The shadows grew close to me,
    closer than we ever were,
    and I saw the sunset out of the bent obtuse blinds,
    No one knocked on the door,
    no one ever does,
    I heard her voice in my mind,
    and then i moved down the road it was necessary to go down,
    the road Tom Joad took,
    My home is the secret location of the grapes of wrath,
    such impressionable youth.

    such a mistake.

    such useless verbiage coming from the lips of my keyboard,.

    Writing about a dead love.

    Writing a living obituary.

    nothing is worse than the joy you feel at the end of a failed experiment with love.

    Submitted on 2010-03-03 09:59:41     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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