1
Deep in the Cellar
Bottle Crusher chews the glass
Spitting milky grit
It’s used to make new highways,
I taste new roads in my spit.
2
Above, the night crowd:
Stomping, hooting, hooded eyes
Lost in their song
Sweat-stained clothes from magazines
All so scared they don’t belong
3
Into the Crusher
Like reject, broken bottles:
Our place in the world.
Who go astray from their roads.
To the cellar we are hurled
4
Trust desire lines
Those thin paths for wanderers
In the woods clearing
Let your feet take you onward
Sing far from night crowd’s hearing
5
The Crusher has stopped
Overfed and choking now,
Amber blinking light.
I let it choke and leave then,
Out to an uncertain night.
About the Creator
Conor Darrall
Short stories, poetry and some burble . Irish traditional musician, medieval swords guy, draoi and strange egg. Bipolar/ADD/CPTSD/Brain Damage. Currently querying my novel 'The Forgotten 47' - @conordarrall / www.conordarrall.com
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Masterful proofreading
Zero grammar & spelling mistakes
Keep reading
More stories from Conor Darrall and writers in Poets and other communities.
Violence Begets
"Any last words, cowboy?" "None you'd understand, sodbuster." "Funny. That's Marshall Sodbuster to you. But I meant some last nugget that would help us in the adjudication of the myriad offenses counted against you and your gang. I wasn't asking for penitence."
By Adam Diehl6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Gorgeous! You have such a unique way of capturing images. "I taste new roads in my spit." I just love it.