just kill him. the hell hounds will make him a lovely meal.
living with Sarah,
I could never write a single poem,
nothing. I would just enter the space
between her legs and that kept me sane. the sunflower hair,
the eyes, (skin, smell, touch)
panties under the bed, hot showers and
then putting it inside
like a novelty.
she was out and about, always drunk,
but to be fair - I was drunk too, but alone,
alone with myself and the music but not being able
to write worth a shit.
nothing.
nothing.
she'd come home drunk and it was sex.
it was easy,
long and winding through the sheets.
long and winding through the sheets.
and then I would think of all the boys at the clubs, the bars,
anywhere but where I was drinking alone,
in my own bar, drunk with classical music and jazz,
while she was out with them...
and I can still hear her voice now,
more clearly then ever...
"Ivan!..."
"I missed you baby..."
2 comments:
This was written very very well. The winding in the sheets and the overall vibe of what was going on- made me feel it was a lonely sadness, the only things that felt right about it even felt like he really reached out to her and felt close but perhaps the whole time she stayed distant. As a reader I could understand the dark attraction, perhaps addiction, as if the man in the poem realised how meaningless it was in the end-at least to her, his bitterness yet release of her by acknowledging why they were together and what he had wanted that didn't end the best of ways.
winding of sheets= journey with her like winding roads, but still gave the vision of the sheets. I liked how that's worded.
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