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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Death's faithful dog (part 4)dots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Angeles
    Elite Ratio:    3.87 - 5/13/19
    Words: 489
    Class/Type: Poetry/
    Total Views: 985
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 3091



    Description:
       


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

    dotsDeath's faithful dog (part 4)dots
    -------------------------------------------


    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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