Quiet Poetry Lounge : Friday Nights in Frownland

abstract219

...standing on the shoulders of giants
REGISTERED MEMBER
Sep 21, 2005
2,482
525
Philadelphia PA
Occupation
Behavioral Health
Every Friday night,
The angry melodrama begins...
Your slow, slurred speech.
Drunken aristocratic poses.
Trying to disguise your crassness.
There was a time
I loved your theatrics.
Now I want out of this
festering sore of a marriage.

Terror stricken,
I cower in the kitchen.
Your voice melts chrome...
and shatters the silence.
Petulant self-importance takes root.

Again your voice...
"What I want.
What I wanted.
What. I. Want."


Your subversive playfulness
once lovely and becoming,
now reduced to a test of endurance...
like a aching tooth.
Doors slam, dishes crash.
The music of our lives,
avant-garde and out of pitch.
The shock of the new
becomes old......again.

The smell of burnt roses.
You inhaled the blue sky
and vomited puke green.
Trombones bleat sour notes,
broken prisms bleed vertigo
patterns in my head.

"What I want.
What I wanted....
What. I. Want."

Some ask why I don't smile anymore.
It's easy.
I live in Frownland.
 

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