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Neither of us will go quietly.

That was obvious from the first.

Her moans and denials and fight are only restrained by the liquid morphine that courses through her veins.

She will not go quietly.

 

On the way to see her.

On the way to see her for the last time.

I did not go quietly.

The sounds of the engine and the radio could not be heard over my shrieks and sobs.

 

When the end comes

neither of us will go quietly

even if we don’t make a sound.

Hello Dearest Reader,

I have very much enjoyed blogging on wordpress these many months and I have grown very fond of many talented folks. I have wondered often, what’s going on inside this or that person’s head? So I am hoping that you will come with me as I ask fellow bloggers, what’s in your head? As always, this is intended to be both light and serious and I suppose it’s up to you to figure out what’s what.

All things start with Bryan Borland, aka poeticgrin, but I hope some of you will allow me to “interview” you in the future.

1. Meatloaf wrote a commentary about how love has bounds. Whatever he won’t do for love is irrelevant; his point is that he’s not going to let love be all-consuming. Do you find that objects in the mirror appear closer than they are?

If you listen closely to the verses, MedicatedLady, you would hear that Mr. Loaf clearly says what he won’t do for love within the song. For example, “I’ll never stop dreaming of you every night of my life” or “I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t go all the way tonight.”  Such things are never irrelevant.  If your lover says to you, “MedicatedLady, do you ever let men hit it from the back?” you might think to yourself, “Self, I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”  Or you might think, well, I’ve given him two of three orifices and two out of three ain’t bad.  At that point, knowing you as I do, I would have to say that you would prefer objects no where near your rear view, mirror or no.

2. Why are you cheerful when the world is dying all around you?

Generally my cheerfulness is chocolate or sex induced.   Or chocolate-sex induced.  I recommend incorporating and co-mingling the things one loves.  Unless those things include two forms of sleep medication and texting ex-flames. Or salsa and sex.  Salsa and sex do not go together either.

3. Can you write an on-the-fly poem about the wasp nest just outside my door?

STING OPERATION

We build our home with mounds of dirt
And plot a way to score: insert
Our stingers when she’s not alert
To sneak a peek, buzz up her skirt!
A flying fleet who came to flirt
We’ll show her who can make it hurt!

4. How has your writing evolved in the past year?

My writing has gone through puberty and has enjoyed a growth spurt.  I feel as if I’ve matured a bit as a poet.  I’ve learned to make the most of spacing, that within a poem, every line, every word, every punctuation mark must be significant or it should be edited out. Slashing the cliche’, the repetitive, the overly-indulgent – those are necessary things of which I’ve become aware.  I’m still working on them, but I think I am making progress.  I believe that when a writer can hit that delete button and remove unnecessary but beloved verses/lines/words, that’s progress.

5. What is your philosophy of writing the truth? Is it concrete, objective, variable? Or something else?

Nothing is concrete.  That’s why I love poetry.   Poetry is anything you want it to be.  If I have written a poem, once I send it out to the world, it’s not mine anymore.  It becomes the readers’ personal property, and those readers can shape it into anything they wish. My hope is that they shape it into something that moves them, that recalls a love or a hope or an ache.

6. How does one who is medicated inspire love and encouragement instead of inciting riots and despair?

A happy poet is an unproductive poet, M’Lady.  When my life is grand, I can count on yours to be unfortunate in some entertaining way.  When life hands you lemons, I write about them.

For her to feel

our family are vandals

carving indifference into her heart

Not here

 

She doesn’t use these exact words

Where are they?

The answer is exacting

hissing in the air around and between us

burning into the walls and branding our skin

every inch

words smoking

notherenotherenotherenotherenotherenotherenothere

Anonymous poetry is better than anonymous sex
While he’ll snore and creep like a coward
You, dearest reader, will see me in the morning and be able to look me in the soul
He’ll bear his ass
But you’ll bear witness and be strong enough to comment on it

She lays in the hospital bed

moaning in pain

her mouth forming a perfect “O”

where her toothless smile should be

her eyes squeezed shut

as if every fiber of her being

wants to purge itself

of itself

of the pain and disease inside

 

And I wonder:

when can I leave?

SOB with me

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