by Daniel A. Nicholls. Poetry, art, and related problems.
friday was good
the bottom of the well the top of the water the sky the sky as signified the looking in the flowing through the bucket down the welling up the drawing up the dry— and should the child plunging in pull apart the parents’ cry from every bond of lung— the townsmen’s hands the tiny flailing limbs the short commands the sputter the stone from stone from stone below the wailing forth the shovels and picks and grandad’s voice the wet echo whimper the dusk mounting to see the grime-slick slip the rope gone slack the water sleep the night spent at an open grave the moon giving no comfort the screams of father down empty earth the mute upgaze of mother the filling in and sealing up the few words of a bridled priest the moving to another town the adoption of nothing new with breath the rye instead of water the little spirit in packed dirt-down and all this goddamn silence.
unfollow stupid tumblrrs
Consumer Alert - Trojan Fire & Ice Condoms
Upon examining a Trojan Fire & Ice condom, I immediately noticed something was very wrong.
Ahem. Take it from a man named Frost.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice”
I did start by trying to make it lovely for you,
I swear. I turned my father into a great black bird
and his life into a river lit by a basket lamp burning
fragrant splits of pine. Look, I even turned
my mother into a noble fisherman, face
shielded by a snow-white hat’s brim.
But my father was really nothing like a cormorant,
his death nothing like noble work, and not even
1300 years of history could explain away his silence
or my mother’s cruel collar and wet, heavy ropes.