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inthewater Mar 2018
it drips from the bottle
and into your
which spouts words
with no regard for my
that you don't know how to address
without alcohol kissing your
that form sentences
with a mind of their own
uninhibited by their flattery of me when they were

it agitates your face
as it rests in your
that used to hold mine and it
glazes over your
that used to light up when they saw me
or when they heard my
that you can hardly stand to speak
without alcohol
dancing on your
that doesn't render sounds
without cheap courage summoned

it depresses your
that I used to find intriguing
as it was paradoxically
kind with a quick
that no longer aims
to make me laugh
but is now restrained by the liquor
that you plastered to yourself
without concern -
would you even stop
if your own bottle said
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
This—  This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other Men—   Immoral—   Immoral living—  Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four.  

Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries.  

At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant.  

She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned.  

A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear—   these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar.  

A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep—  

Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white-roomed and room-filled afternoon.  

In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again.  

Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me.  

Eyes opened, I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow.  

White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me.  
A mark was kept. A mark was left.  

A deep breath in, not held and out.
The Sunrise was a low-end hotel on Hastings Street in Vancouver. The bed-in-a-trunk sequence was as described. The orange juice had a sleeping drug in it and the trunk-bed was used to separate children from parents or guardians without a fuss. '61. Alberta.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
elaine Oct 21
I fell asleep with him drunk and stupidly in love. That's how most of my stories go. I was drunk, and I looked at him like he was God. I would fantasize and convince myself that I can finally be with someone that actually wants me. They leave and I accept the fact that no one would love someone like me.
My first lover told me I needed to stop letting people **** me so easily. So I waited and waited and still was unsure but I slept with them and they left. So I guess you were wrong, people just leave me.
I've been second-guessing people's feelings since they first state them. It annoys them but I'm never too sure until they get fed up and leave me hurting. I beg them to stay even if they will hurt me worse in the end, but I am hurting now so it won't be any different. It just doesn't seem to matter. I just need to feel. But once again I pick up a bottle and ***** the first person to talk to me because baby, I haven't been the same since you left. So call me crazy or a ***** but I want you to know I will never love someone more than I loved you. So please tell me again how I need to stop sleeping with people so easily because that's what I did with you and that got you to stay around for a while. A little bit longer than most. Please just don't leave me.
Everyone seems to leave me so I might just take this ***** and jump off the roof because baby I haven't been living since you left me. Baby, I haven't been breathing since you left.
I need to leave too. I think its better. I absolutely despise myself and everyone who has been around me. I hate this person I've become after you but baby, I was so young when you met me I don't know who I am to this day. Baby, I was so young.
Why did you have to introduce me to hurt like that so young?
You can see me with a bottle in hand because baby I am better when I'm drunk I've been told
Luz Hanaii  Feb 2
Luz Hanaii Feb 2
"Let go of your inhibitions", they said.
Hmm! not sure if 'they' were poets or drunks?
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