Dead ol' Dad

Too young to breathe in Whiskey horrors,

Mixed drinks, neo nightmares and a flattened father upon cold grey linoleum

I remember crying ashes,

Blown like dust into the fire places of the soul, a tiny voice left to fly through the byways of magical imagination and wishing if I closed my eyes tightly I could change my destination

Face dirty, pants pissed,

Listening to the rumble grumbling of a sleeping titan, his face pasted to the gleam

Crude bruises on momma’s neck remain uninspected

I suspected we’d remain unprotected because the shield lay fractured

Please, don’t wake up

Black devils dance through the basement of dreams, becoming one, forming together as the blight of abuse and mistrust

No family portraits, only a portrayal of broken purpose

Proposals of pain and projected prognosis of the hopeless

He stirs, I grab Mama’s leg and she winces

Forehead kiss of agony, anticipating tragedy

Tragically expected the next round of misery

The next round of misery brings with it thoughts that cut jaggedly

And jaggedly my veins burn up in suspenseful alchemy

I hear it

I hear it

Momma whimpers

He rises like 100 heads with 100 crowns on them, reborn oblivion obliterating small breaths that escape from lungs pasting the walls in flies and plague

A slew of curses slung in satantic verses and God is too busy to bother

I remember the distinct sound of popping hair follicles

“Does this hat cover up the bald spot sweetie? Tell mommy the truth”

I picked flowers

Of glass from Momma’s back

Watched as Disney vacations comingled with blood drip down the tubes into a sewer to dance in the waves of leftover laughter of happy family dinners in a graveyard of forgotten purposes and poses

I remember wringing my hands

Zipping and unzipping my jacket

While watching the heaving, heavy breathing back of dear old dad demon

Lay intoxicated mutilating man sized punches,

Crushing bone to cracked crust

Mashing to ashes

Trust to dust

For better or for worse

In sickness and in health

We play empty handed because that’s the hand that’s dealt

 There’s a hum of electricity, playing under music for the soundtrack of disjointed heartbeats, sweat flecks leave beats upon the pages of a suicidal symphony, Brawny cleans the rest and into the trash can goes the evidence of another fight night brought to you by Jim Beam

Punctuated by a single lamp flickering out life’s light

 

Author's Note

keep your tears to yourself, no one needs em

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

My tears are mine to use as I see fit. They cry for the boy. He is the only one deserving sympathy, caught in this maelstrom of fucked-up adult conflict. And how well you have represented the turmoil in your telling of this all too familiar scenario. Father as Greek-style monster, mother as helpless as any Sabine woman and son, too young to be a hero. It is epic, and deeply personal, which is why it's brilliant.

[Tim Lion]

I'm saving up my tears for a drought.

this is.......familiar.

some of your best writing I've seen.
strikes at the core.

[Lacha Young]

i 100 percent loves this story, takes me back a few years ago. But my story was way more deep. i didn't grow up in a happy home. we fight abuse these days. Some of us are use to having a broken heart and lost wonder mind. everybody angry and ungrateful

[Lacha Young]

your note is funny ! #Rofl

[Aries]

This piece is through-and-through an artery popper... It starts with the intensity of any good E.H.M writing, and ends like a sledgehammer finding its mark. The same grime I've come to admire in your writing.

"He rises like 100 heads with 100 crowns on them, reborn oblivion obliterating small breaths that escape from lungs pasting the walls in flies and plague

A slew of curses slung in satantic verses and God is too busy to bother"

[The Analog Kid]

Very powerful. This is different for you. Potent as hell, and, I could picture the horrors here.

[Droll Prole]

Just brilliant, nothing I could add to these comments.

[Donald Meikle]

Glad y' made it mon. Hold on I've been told it's repetitive. It's something I've never experienced either way.

[Michael of Gilead]

No tears here, this is a place i've never been and i am happy for it and no i won't tell you in time it will be alright either, cuz it never will be.

[Andrew Scorah]

It seems to me all great masters of the written word come from a past of darkness and fear, this is a fantastic poem putting into words what goes on behind a lot of closed doors. Fav lines=He rises like 100 heads with 100 crowns on them, reborn oblivion obliterating small breaths that escape from lungs pasting the walls in flies and plague-A slew of curses slung in satantic verses and God is too busy to bother-There’s a hum of electricity, playing under music for the soundtrack of disjointed heartbeats, sweat flecks leave beats upon the pages of a suicidal symphony, Brawny cleans the rest and into the trash can goes the evidence of another fight night brought to you by Jim Beam. Nice one and nice to have you back where you belong.