Wifey Boozer

i saw the new generation
with great hand-eye coordination
and little or no compassion.
or passion, for anything.

and i saw fools wear flip-flops
in winter, with t-shirts, and shorts.
Not because they're poor,
but where i lived, many were.

i heard the new generation
talk, and not say anything.
i heard them scream
about peace, because the sign's in fasion.
and then they get expelled
for bustin' noses.

i saw neon in black
because it looks cool.
i saw every blonde in pink in the nowties
because everyone wants to stand out nowadays.
everyone wants to pop.

but no one goes to the funeral,
and no one here everr has.
and no one has a voice
anymore, so what really stands out
is ignorance.

i see everything
much too literal clear...
Back in the day, footage was much more grainy,
less saturated with meaningless colour,
just... better looking.
Like a hydrocode, or a Heineken haze.
And that was a much better place
to be.
Or not to.

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... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

20 views and no re's? Come now, people. You must have something to say.

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... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Piss Me Off

That first bit is straight up Moz, very nice.

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Last FM
Rate Yr Music
Muxtape

Adarg

The best poem I've read in a hell of a long time. Great job.

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[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]

WWWP

<3

Lovely job.

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#DEMODFROWNLAND
#TERMLIMITSFORMODERATORS

Wifey Boozer

Thank you guys very much . Much appreciated.

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... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

A short story. Fiction, mostly.




I always loved your class, Mr. Holland. You always had this very highly-developed sense of humor.

- Mr. Holland’s Opus


We were sitting in my pay-by-the-week apartment in the Crime Figure’s watch-yo’-step-city. The overhead lights were the kind you’d see in a pool hall, and they hurt my eyes, so I always looked hung-over. Hair a mess from insomnia. Eyes hid with tinted lenses. Body always covered with layers - no heat. Cold feet, cold hands, cold heart - bad circulation. I was having black coffee, with just a spot of cream. And cigarettes.

She was having juice. I don’t know where the juice came from.

“Remember Russ? Well my mother kicked him out on his ear and said that I could never talk to him again. So he gave me earrings and said that he would love me forever and walked out.”

Where do these people come from? Where do they find me?

“I haven’t heard from him since last Saturday,” she frowned.

“Naturally. That’s 3 to 5, statutory rape. Not that I believe in that...”

Not that anyone ever listens.

“This royally sucks... I miss him so much. But when I move out...”

When did you get a job? How did you even get over here?

“He promised me that he would move in with me as soon as he found out where I lived.”

Who is this guy, J. Edgar Hoover? This always happens, with under-age relationships, and it never comes through. If old men’s promises meant anything I’d be at an OTB right now in South Carolina, and probably really missing my family. Or in a bar not missing anything. These are seperate occassions however, and I digress...

I just looked at her and blew smoke out the side. I looked down and she reached out, pathetic, for an answer. To her this was real.

“You want my advice?”

A pause. She knows me, she don’t know me that well, just enough to know I’ve got a few screws loose. A few cards short of a poker game. A few balls less than shootin’ straight. A few ants short of a poetic afternoon picnic. A few ounces short of a full swimming pool. A few pints short of a stocked bar. A few lines off of 20/20 vision. A few nails short of a sturdy foundation. A few cigarettes short of a pack. All that and then some.

I spoke, groggy, rambling. I unwittingly told her how to be me.

“Start chain smoking. Develop a healthy drinking habit... and an unhealthy narcotics one. Check yourself into rehab about 2 or 3 years after that. Write a book, almost get it published and have them revoke the contract right after that. Become bitter and highly develop a sense of dry humor. Develop a general disdain for people, and you'll feel comfortable. Grow a sac, get a job, start hating life, bite a bullet, find poetry, fuck god, and live your life.”

She ran out crying. I laughed. It was finally quiet.

I want to be a child psychologist. Specializing in children of addicts.

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... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

22 and no review? Come now people...

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... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

One more bump.
And then I give

... ump.

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... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

aveneficus

all right i suppose i'll throw you a bone here.
i liked this piece as a whole, but i do have a few things to say about it.
The descriptive nature of the story is brilliant in itself, however at some points it drags on a bit too long.
For example:
This paragraph starts out and ends well, but there are just a few too many examples given that it ends up a little dry.

Another suggestion would be to format the piece differently. I realize that it is a short story but it's written incredibly poetically. I might try spacing it differently to display that so that it is read correctly. However, I could be entirely off the mark here.
Anyway, I enjoyed reading this nonetheless and good luck in your endeavors.

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