Prologue to Abigail

The poet had fallen from a brown stool,
bar mongers had just broken out in insidious laughter;
She pushed the glass intimidating testosterone, and
Stood there.

She sat;

the valley of her back-neck
searched corners for fit company.
None found,she called for a shot.
Her descending eyes met the lying man.
He got up.

Amidst all this drama,
alcohol,’you and me’ talk
the poet named her, “Abigail.”

 

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Warehouses

If you look up warehouses late at
night, you’ll find iron rods
making love, and telling you gently
to break some bones before the rust sets
In.

Greatness

two hundred and fifty days into greatness

the tap in the bathroom was not working which meant

the sink would overflow anytime

He had to buy milk and oats for the children

the brown bread was caramelized

his wife was seeing someone else and

casually applied for a paper that had D written all over it with

government stamps

similar to what had made him great, only that was a bit greener, or so he thought. His daughter was ‘wrongly

touched’ in school and only that was accepted because he was HE.

Two hundred and fifty days into greatness,

life had changed, it must have.

He was sitting in his first business class.

Why ritthings?

Most of you, thankfully, do not know me personally.

On that note, it gives me the freedom to share with you my reflections, misgivings, disappointments, cynicism and very little of happiness. I will begin with posting poems. Please share if they resonate with you.

I am not particularly an optimist so don’t expect swinging bubble gums but if you have had a broken heart, a conflicted mind and a ruptured body, my writings may touch you.

Let’s share unhappiness.

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