weekends are golden

A weekend of self abuse ends with sleeting snow on a Sunday night. The body has another four days to recover before the Thursday night binge ensues. These weekends are ruled by the family, substituting for the ones that should really be, but the bloodtypes and surnames take a backseat to a hug that is not forced./And the good times come in small doses, happiness is the last cigarettes, our songs on the radio of a beat up car, nachos for dinner on a Wednesday night. But the bloodlines keep us going, with spikes of pleasure along the way. The pen flows, the books are read. We do what we can. We get by./ And maybe we feel good behind a glass, the aging process of the brew becomes a hand held, a kiss to the soft spot on the neck. The binge becomes us. Cigarettes are enough to keep us warm on nights like these. We do not need heat, passion. We need family, alien brothers and whorehouse sisters, blind uncles and jumper-cable fathers. This is where the peace lives, as our novels sit unread in milkcrates and our left hands get stiff, with words stuck in our fingers. Inspiration lives in a bottle, exists in a stoned word in the snow. / Reruns run and run, letting us have some ghostly torch of our past. Identify, know, experience, become. The snow piles up to the window, blocking and holding. Embraced in cold, we will not leave.


3 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. blackglassmoon
    Mar 15, 2011 @ 13:10:48

    i love this. a hell perhaps of happiness. trapped and free at once. thank you.


  2. fiveloaf
    Mar 15, 2011 @ 12:00:24

    nice write dear berry.. here’s my potluck and care to comment.. http://fiveloaf.wordpress.com/2010/04/27/cheesecake/


  3. Jingle
    Mar 14, 2011 @ 22:56:50

    lovely imagery, Glad to see you enjoy weekend.



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