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Death's faithful dog (part 4)


Author: Angeles
Elite Ratio:    3.87 - 5 /13 /19
Words: 489
Class/Type: Poetry /
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Death's faithful dog (part 4)



The fish-oil tears of a weakling, were seen
The potato-eaters vented their spleen
For their sickly houses weren’t good enough
Such dirt covered trousers looked too rough
As scum poured into a diary with disdain
That sophist would never spread upon his face
Anything but pretty images, a serene aural mood
Never without a boy in the depraved country brood
Of savage pagans, hellish in the pagan West
The thought of such sweetness on his breast
He’d turn aside as quick as Peter
In meekness please the great defiler
And why now across the centuries
As I make my way doing countless injuries
Does he offer me a pale confession?
The future should be sickened by his reflection
In them, hidden secrets not fit to be burned
Beautiful writing leaking on the page like worms
In everything there is some nourishment
And men will learn to glut themselves on curses
When self-oppression echoes across the ages
We will put it in the symposium like sages





I'll take up a weapon for this
Poor people hide in the alleys
In the sunken streets at night
I feel their thinly-veiled fear
"They", but am one of them
And if I brought death
I'm not really wiser
I've sullied my memories for a higher power
There's never really enough water
To clean this city about to go boom
The blind half-deaf on the street can hear it
It comes through their nervous system
And makes them scarper like dogs
begging to be put out of thunder and lightning
I put my hand on the wall in the muddy streets
Count to ten and try to catch my breath
There's really little difference between the hound and I
Both have grown unnerved at the depraved scent
Of piss-softened cardboard boxes rotting
The rags on lines drying out in the morning
It would be cleaner to sleep in the belly
Of a fish-head filled skip
Gasping for air in my own ennui
And no-one will see the bodies
The wasting of life
In this city that has been like a father to me
Though the scars on my back from its belt are heavy



2:32 pm


Grace won't you come?
I don't know what's wrong with me
I tried my best to get up in the morning
But you know...I'm not sure why...it wasn't easy


Some random night


I have watched you do your dance at the pier
You would hardly notice it

I have heard your voice on the evening air
While the other doors were closed to it

I Decided to give up on life in a breeze
All that I needed was the dream of you, Grace

But your dance on the pier was more real
And I couldn't draw my eyes away from the sea.




Submitted on 2015-08-20 09:48:46     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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Comments


  I left a comment on this series sometime ago but deleted it because I second guessed what I'd left. Not that it was negative, just wasn't quite what I wanted to express. I'm back, I guess, because I've noticed other poems of yours in the needs comments section and thought I'd give it another go.

I think the four poems as a series are fascinating in their story. There's a richness and multi-layered thing I really appreciate. It's very human. I like the contrasts presented by the brutality of butchering etc. and the tenderness of expression/nostalgia at points. I think this is how it is. I mean, we have to do things that degrade us or that we don't agree with to stay alive at times. I mean, that's the reality for a large percentage of the human population, and you present that in a very humane way. I think. I don't know. It reminds me a bit of T.S. Eliot (Prufrock) mixed with Roger Waters's album The Pros and Cons of Hitchiking. Not so much in content or style, just in terms of emotional content or expression of an individual interacting with his environment.

I could say more about what I find compelling, but I won't. In terms of criticism I would only say there are some typos or minor spelling/grammar errors. Otherwise I think these four poems are excellent, quality work.
| Posted on 2015-10-15 00:00:00 | by emwren | [ Reply to This ]


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