Author: Astartes Rapture PM
I drink this searing liquid for hopeless tranquility . . . from YOU! (Review and I will try to return the favor.)Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Tragedy - Words: 383 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 3 - Published: 11-20-05 - id: 2052612
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
One . . .
For the opal right eye shiner
My - How this match burned whiskey
Ignites my throat in autumn toned flames!
Like a mad-eyed brush fire (a Goliath monster)
Gobbling as Grendel all sanctity in mere handbreadths
The liquid crackles and roars in the pit of that claret mussel
Where no thick wafts churn or water my pupils
Since this obscure smoke is scintillatingly refreshing
When inhaled by a madcap adolescent
(Battered – like an old hag with a beer bottle)
(Molested – touched by a past trusted kinsman)
(Frayed – like a tattered spool of canary thread)
Who is this scruffy mirage in my whisky bottle mirror?
The one – with swollen sockets oozing malice?
Two . . .
For the Washingtons of retribution
My – How I have emerged from boyhood to manhood
As your personal prostitute! (You Bastard)
Your sexual gratification erects in your hairy fist
Pounding! Stomping! Grating my skeletal structures!
(I hear the thud-thud-thuds even now)
In my mind – it reverberates down my spinal cord
Damn these pesky bumps upon my hide
Damn . . . you
Whom I dread, tremble, and become so near tossing this liquid
As its claws climb the depths of my esophagus to reach oxygen – swallow deeply -
Two bucks for a lifetime of bloody nightmares and earthly hell
(where I fight back – for once – and murder you – yes – murder)
(for each midnight your curses and college rings murdered my soul)
Three . . .
For my own self-satisfaction and mutilation
May this liquid birth sweet dreams without merry dreams
Or fury battles with my barbed knuckles white
That I may choke those Madras clad aristocrats
Until they moan – solicit my mercy – compassion –
That will rot with my maggot body beneath a stone less mound
For they will become me (a terrified rat who yields to yeti bellows)
Who bows before the creature who has harvested him of virtue
Leaving a skeletal image – a vase of vehemence and sinful passion
I spit and my stomach drops at who I see in this whisky looking glass
This swampy reflection in my cherished scarlet bottle of temporary bliss
Is of you father – and I your despised and bribed son – one sweaty face blended
(an immaculate metamorphosis of two hell bound hounds)
My - What have you made me become – you bastard!?
Four . . .
A toast to you, father