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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Friday Night at the Wine Cellardots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: trinityfinger
    Elite Ratio:    3.53 - 136/343/209
    Words: 282
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 318
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1941



    Description:
       Old, but not that old.
    Back when I used to give a shit about performing poetry live.
    Now, it's not important anymore, regardless of the $$ offered.
    Cynicism is a fickle creature.


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

    dotsFriday Night at the Wine Cellardots
    -------------------------------------------




    You should've heard me two nights ago—
    all silken-eyed, swaying to the smoke of an inner city,
    forgetful of the light and its occupants breathing
    stifled coffees into their stomachs.

    I burnt edges of verbs into your palm. You,
    you rewarded me with staccato text messages on your phone,
    disbelieving that I would come at 1.41 a.m., down Newton Road,
    and through Dominion's endless traffic lights.

    You said "Poetry belongs in people's hearts. It belongs
    where the Whitmans and Ginsbergs would feel at home, wired on
    too many afternoons fussing over this word and that, this construct
    of perception meant to titillate and entrance." And I would agree.

    I traced saffron into my voice that night, hid behind saxophones
    blaring from the speakers of this speakeasy underground collection
    of Bohemian twenty-somethings: some looking for glory, some
    a medley of existential and anarchist life.

    What life, you say, here, broken, weighed down by tribulations,
    by the codes of society telling you you must learn to conform, learn
    to be another sheeple munching on third-rate, third-world grass?
    We never wanted any of this; we still look to a hard but brave new world.

    You should've been here with me two nights ago—
    forgetful of the sound of too many people fucking and swearing,
    screaming and falling off of rooftops, unimpressed with the circular weave,
    the Circadian rhythms of frustration and woe.

    You should've come. You should've come.
    You should've written a poem with me.


    _________________________________________________________________




    Submitted on 2012-01-20 09:30:04     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
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    ||| Comments |||
      Why don't you give a shit? Are you the cynic or is the audience full of them? Or both?

    I'd love to hear you read it. Especially the bits like, "I burnt edges of verbs into your palm. " and "I traced saffron into my voice". And then that last stanza.

    Great stuff.

    You really are a tremendous talent.

    Jane

    | Posted on 2012-01-25 00:00:00 | by JanePlane | [ Reply to This ]
      i agree it is hip...beat poetry and i can hear you reading aloud..

    maybe with a clarinet playing in the background.

    i was groovin' with this one.

    jacob
    | Posted on 2012-01-20 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]
      i remember this. i remember loving it the last time i read it too.

    i think what is so something here, well it's a couple things...

    it's hip without being obnoxious. kinda beat but not quite. i love the language and the way it presents itself. and well, a whole buncha stuff that i can't quite put into words (as usual).

    i think this is top rate though.

    that's all.

    (smile).
    | Posted on 2012-01-20 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]


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