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    dots Submission Name: Pyre Romancerdots

    Author: Wolfwatching
    ASL Info:    28/Male/Ireland
    Elite Ratio:    7.58 - 96/139/123
    Words: 295
    Class/Type: Poetry/
    Total Views: 1347
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2066


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    dotsPyre Romancerdots

    In the drunken sleep of Sundays
    My Father showed me Ben-Hur,
    Long Western quick or dead
    Epics, the determination
    Of horses grinding wheels,
    The death of actors
    So many died to make this movie
    He said. He would say-
    Well there's no point in talking
    Or bringing those things up now.

    And childhood was a bore,
    The wind up blow up
    Wide-eyed, idol lies;
    There was no need for a pedestal,
    No need to moralise
    No need,
    There was really no need.

    But I kept thinking of their bodies,
    Trampled under hoof,
    And under wheel,
    Under the system of a studio
    I laughed like a hyenna,
    Nervous at first
    Then harder and harder,
    For there's nothing to get the blood pumping
    Like watching a Sunday matinee with your Father.

    That's over now.

    I went out into the bushes,
    I drank countless bottles of wine
    While I was waiting on you, my dear heart.
    You can imagine that the wild
    Is something we can cultivate,
    Its like sending those horses round
    And round on a cardboard set,
    One can paint and script and write and
    Weaponise the aesthetics of blood.
    This is what I thought for you, my heart
    While I could have considered a burning bush,
    I've let my head slide
    I feel the trees lifting me,
    Up to look at the red sunrise.

    In the clouds,
    Like the chemicals left at the bottom
    Of a bottle of beer, the bitter dregs,
    In suds a little fly is floating on top of-
    You can imagine in a bit of a heat haze-
    That this is where I saw your eyes...

    Submitted on 2017-08-24 14:29:02     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      What is tremendous here is the honesty. And it's sad. And it's real. And it hurts. It is laced with disappointment. Yet, it holds too, like a grasping at straws for a moment. Any moment. Even if it's losing oneself in the ridiculous bullshit of a moment. Ah, to be tortured. And these are the things we remember. Ya know?

    what is heaviest? the state of drunkeness or the blur of it. perhaps the one consistant thing to rely on. and how recognizing that fact alone, makes one learn how both loving and being loved is hard. yet, it becomes the one true absolute - life is a love lesson.

    when i read the later part, it feels of utter grief to me. maybe i am wrong, but it is heart wrenching. angry even. strangely, it makes me think of how when we are children, our parents are god. they are everything. even if they are goodbadanduglyorindifferent. then you have this realization, they are fallabile humans being.

    The thing is, I truly believe we are our dna. I am myself (of course), but I am my parents and I am my parent's parents and their parent's parents. I wrote something along the lines once: I am my mother. and my mother's mother. and my mother's mother's mother. until we weren't. at all.

    anyway, just some thoughts...
    | Posted on 2017-09-26 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]
      1. I think the posting of readings/performances is ballsy and I applaud that. I would to do that on youtube lol but then I think I'd get teased@work. Seeing you do it, i think it's the shit.

    2. I was / and remain pretty excited to discover this poem. Seems very clever and lyrical how you've put it together. Put it together - as in important work. Happy to see your name attached to it.
    | Posted on 2017-08-24 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ]

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