WolffmanRob

Hands of the Son By: Robert J. Sanders These hands Not half as weathered as a mind Too old and battered, prematurely, And soaked in the memories drowned under stale whiskey and the beer of the father that left too early twice leaving five times the burden for the hesitant carrier of the name that is old and English, not Irish, and tied to the Great Alexander, the owner of the known world just as a father owns the world of his son and leaves the conquest before it is seen through to the end that comes by phone at six am before being carried in a velvet bag by a big breasted undertakeress to a thankless cemetery

Souls dripping drops of loss ove the pnas now gone far below the ideas of who we are and the proper ways we improperly digest. Eliminating the red dixie cups of last week's pong game as we develop a lifeong habit of dealing with thing we never plan to sort out. Sprinting hard toward and end we fear as the truth comes screaming down but its to late to stop. Squeaking tires and gravel grinding the cliff comes and the ask for misfortune comes fleeing out of us in mixed, unsavory colors only to pile beneath us in a putrid mass abandoned. No one to hold back out hair as our life comes out in violent heaves and chunks of acrid r

The Darkness of Lace By: Robert J. Sanders We've launched into the darkness to find she was there. She was drunk and I was only pretending. Swaying delicately in the light her skin melting colors through her lace shirt she moved slightly behind the throbbing of the music. I took a draught of my only beer trying to free my eyes of her hold. She was mixing her drinks in her mouth; her voice was intoxicating to hear. She licked her lips and clicked a metal ring against her top teeth as her bottom lip sprung free her eyes turned to me. My eyes darted desperate for an excuse to the inexcusable staring. A smile. A cock o

Eating gasping paining seeing Craning draining panting fleeing Go for mats golden glimmer Drifting at pats mizzen mother. Cones of tires of heaping bags Flee sparkling fires consuming hags Into burgundy lack please rule Pin the maitre d to empty pool. Dry bed and damp forehead Pray to dead death camps spread Apprehend henge grow eager wrath Amend edge of throng falter moth. Noose loosed captured goose Paisley twisted contented excuse Beckon sun gone bitter argyle Ringing ending orange profile.

 Using winter's air as cigarettes and twisted paths as advice for life we stumbled deftly to an end. Scraping sounds follow behind shuffled feet crunching the world below them. Away from safety, from mother's embrace wandering to the unstoppable blitz towards the bottom. Mounting steed of plastic blue on sore knees and broken ideas of what we are supposed to know. Reins in hand; a snap, a crunch, and whoosh. Lost falling into the world laid out before crying as winter cold bites out soul in bits carried off and frozen as they drift into unrecallable memories. Drifts piled and made of frozen salted soul blasted under the forward moving faili

The drink costs exponentially more As more of it I continue to drink. Whiskey by glass by flask and by quart Coupled with beer by pint and by case. Consuming dollars earned in fiery fluid Until no word describe save shit-faced. Lost within the great maze of self Haze of drink like Galway fog. Red blood thins with unnamed percentage. Drink consumed as gluttonous as the god. A soul confused by and lost in booze Shall find someday some great reckoning The damage and great ineptitude fed By the bottles which go straight to my head.

The water ripples as a hindered Version of the wind. Deep and clear and dark at once No bottom to be seen, A pit of endless mystery. All becomes one in texture and look Under an expanse of silt and time. The same pit of water At once different come every New second passing by cold feet. Alive with duck, swan and muskrat; Upon this lack of air they depend As do all within all habitats. Pods of oxygen cling helplessly To fur of stone. The final remnants Of things that no longer breathe. Choke endlessly under the pressure Of things beyond all control. The fluid making all pure As uniformity punishes all that fall Within the