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Friends of Words I Once Penned
by Max Bouilletpricked by the thorns
of black roses,
she bleeds heroin
in mother's milk
and I suck
in her apathy
until I turn my
back on the divine
and drape myself
in the flesh
of loose women,
cheap wine
and heresy.
many years later
friends of words
i once penned,
find me
incoherent
and babbling of the
gods i have forsaken
and write an
epic of loss
(each word falling
like loose change
into the cup
of vagrant angels
too eager
to kick the
shit out of
a forgotten poet
who blasphemed
one too many times.)
09/04/2005 Author's Note: To the friends of words I once penned... when you find me, please laugh.
Posted on 09/05/2005
Copyright © 2024 Max Bouillet
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Traci Mabats on 09/05/05 at 03:38 AM you are so cynical and eloquent all at the same time. |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 09/06/05 at 11:32 AM Laugh? This leaves a bitter taste full of sorrow. Potent. Direct, full of pathos and a lesson as though in a morality play. |
| Posted by Graeme Fielden on 09/06/05 at 02:30 PM this is beautifully dark, Br Max. A pain-penned introversion, wonderfully stated. I thank you for sharing this :) |
| Posted by Ashok Sharda on 09/06/05 at 02:50 PM Hahaha , mymy, the punch is too hard but they do need it. Hahaha. Will they laugh as you did or I am laughing now? Well, they have written so many epics of emancipation leading them all to dungeons. |
| Posted by Rula Shin on 09/06/05 at 09:44 PM The line is thin isn't it between love and hate, between acceptance and intolerance, between ascension and insanity? hahaha I will laugh, but only because you yourself can laugh, and this laughter alone transcends the darkness, the irony of the life situation which is by no means the LIFE itself and this, I believe, is the ultimate realization. Emancipation from life situation is the embracing of LIFE. For as Ashok points out, just because you write an epic of loss or of recovery or of emancipation, does not make it so. If the vagrant can laugh he is not a vagrant, but then no one else can know but he. That's what I saw. I don't know if what I've said makes any sense in light of your words, but no matter the interpretation this is brilliant work, I might even say the cynicism and irony combined with the sentiment of the gripping images in the scenes contain an air of pungency with which one might find himself suddenly and inexplicably too AWARE, you have a gift for shocking our senses into consciousness. High marks. |
| Posted by Mara Meade on 09/08/05 at 11:15 PM How we grow as we walk the path before us... this is searing introspection and beautiful in its brutal honesty. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 09/11/05 at 01:57 PM it seems, forsaken, is a two edged rapier and on the double face of it, the blood or the glean is equally distributed. nice edgy words, Max. |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 10/11/05 at 07:01 PM When the sun of pestilence infects me with despair... |
| Posted by Bethany Lee on 08/14/08 at 08:11 PM This title drew me in and the poem made me stay...Bravo to you for this penned piece. |
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