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Poetry |
And I tell her Write to me in feminine fonts That flower and bloom and Twist in flowing script And curve in colored pale pastels That calls to mind A fullness of Lips and the hint of hues That form crescents of flushness Around her cheeks And I tell her Talk to me only with a tint of pink words Whispered on the ether of each exhale And floating weightless On the warm vapor of each breath For I am helpless and entranced Possessed and driven by each letter And word and phrase and line And I tell her Take these hands and move them To capture each word that falls From her mouth and is the The slow ripened fruit Of many idle hours And graces my writing table In lushness like a still life With peaches and oranges Incantation She looks at me and says that I am the ghost of my father Sitting on her sofa or sleeping on her love seat And I agree an tell her that his death is simply a ruse To avoid work and shirk obligations I believe he still lives Hiding in fugitive fashion Like some old Nazi who escaped justice Somewhere in South America At the dinner table she calls me by his name The incarnation of his waywardness Whenever displeasure is expressed or faults counted Whenever work goes undone and money is squandered When promises are broken and bills unpaid My father lives again It is all his fault his spirit his failures his disappoints That haunts this home and those who dwell here For he has died and left the TV on Some annoying remnant of him As if the aftershock of his life here remains And it is only the words repeated three times as you spin Around and round Fast and faster with arms extended That can exorcise this house And cleanse it of all his vices The smell of cigarettes mixed with the muskiness Of yesterdays clothes and somehow Silence the sound of his snores As he naps in the sunlight on summer afternoons In childish invocation you must say as you twirl With centrifugal speed in the center of the living room And repeat after me the tragic incantation That will force out his ghost I love your snores I love your farts I love your gone |
Doug Tanoury is exclusively a poet of the internet with the vast majority of his work being published online and never leaving electronic form. His verse can be read at electronic magazines and journals across the world. Doug sites his 7th grade poetry anthology used in Sister Debra's English class as exerting the greatest influence on his work. He still keeps a copy of Reflections On A Gift Of Watermelon Pickle And Other Modern Verse (Stephen Dunning, Edward Lueders and Hugh Smith, (c)1966 by Scott Foresman & Company) at his writing desk. |
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