Prose
Almost Forty Years Ago
How do I mourn and or remember a time, almost forty years ago, with my first love? White wine, surely not red or even rosé, but sweet, could be a start, under a tree overlooking the rising Sun following a night of feasting after such a long fast. The setting Sun would lose its splendour before that night, when her skin and flesh would surpass it, no matter the ambient lighting, as long and short bursts of love and lust, and passion, would fill the atmosphere, searching for some molecules from 1984, and 1985.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Poets
a breaker of deals. Content Warning.
we're not in kentucky anymore, and i went there as far as it would always take me back to his bed yet again. misstepping the what's and when's - like it makes a difference in a he said/he said it again. just a battle of will's and won't's. just like i imagined them. like a gentrified chicken chain on every corner. because the easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but it's not the only one. i hope you came ready to get messy. finger-lickin gentrified chicken chain, close enough to the real thing, because what even is real in this world? does it have to be a thing? a breaker of deals? wheeling here and there, just to settle down together, forever? over a great big bucket of gentrified chicken chain. we are a family because the box says so. still all in this together? where is north going? is this where we turn different directions? is it too soon to say i told you so? didn't i tell you that you would break my heart some day? i didn't know how or when, but i knew you would and then you did. and i never ate at gentrified chicken chain again.
By ⸘jason alan‽2 years ago in Poets
Untitled - Part One
Today I wrote a poem using book titles that I liked the sound and rhythm of, from the Renard Press Spring 2024 Catalogue and The Folio Society Summer Catalogue 2024. Both these publications are as beautiful as the books they sell so before I popped them in the recycling, I felt I had respectfully given then an alternative life as prompts for poetry.
By Alyson Smith 2 years ago in Poets
You-11
For the longest time I walked along my own path But then our paths crossed And I knew I’d never be alone againThank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
Pericles
Pericles, the Pitcher Plant is surrounded by glory. His artistic and opportunistic friends sit around a congregation of the sticky and prickly sort. Unshaven, they chill with their lids off-an open door policy-for those insects drawn in by the lure of fermenting liquor from nectar punch leftover from partying the night before.
By Tony Martello2 years ago in Poets
