The night is waiting patiently,
With a brand new batch of the blackest oil
Just for me.
I am greeted by mould and nicotine yellow
A rum scented slur from my father
The first sigh of the evening
He is a watermark on the sleeve of my mother
Like razor blade cuff links
She struck a mutiny at the age of 57
So I have given up
With him and his bottomless cup
Illuminated by the sympathetic glow of
4 a.m T.V
Decrepit Dutch courage
And falsehoods in sepia
Do not mix well in the stomach
So he spews it over any patient stranger.
With a bad habit of swallowing.
Still this box of fools keeps afloat
Our hollowness promotes buoyancy
But my shoes are filling up
And my whiskey drinks itself
I’m under now,
And the oil is dropped
The sun is little more than a flicker anyway.
When you’re ten fathoms deep.
© Chris Flame 2013
Hello all, sorry about the lack of poetry this week, we have been having a lot of meetings, promoting our new anthology, and general things that come with being a publishing company. Never fear though, we have plenty of new featured writers coming up for your pleasure
Onto todays poem – Chris manages to evoke perfectly the dark, claustrophobic effects of living with abuse. Metaphorical, with accomplished, original word-play, this piece is evocative and tragic, drawing the reader into this dark, horrible world of alcoholism, loneliness and despair. There is very little hope here, no light at the end of the tunnel for this desperate situation that the subject finds themselves in. A piece that unfortunately many can identify with, but will find solace in these words and realise that they are not alone.
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