Life, Through a Shot Glass

Written by Bobartles

They're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone.

They’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone.

If whiskey ran inside our veins,
and burned away our past,
then maybe we could break these chains
and free ourselves at last.

We’d talk about the good times,
of the way things used to go.
We’d lock our hands in darkened rooms,
and no-one else would know.

With no bad blood to hold us back,
we’d build our lives anew.
In happy times or hardship,
those fires would see us through.

Though silence leaves its bitter stains;
uncertainty and fear,
if whiskey ran inside our veins,
then maybe

you’d

be

here?

Written while the poet was severely sleep-deprived, Life Through a Shot Glass is Bobartles’ way of  looking back on his drunken decisions, good and bad. If you enjoyed this poem please check out Harplands, another beautiful but sad poem from the same pen.

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Bronze Regrets

Written by OrdDiff

More machine than man... Photo by Mike Rollerson

More machine than man… Photo by Mike Rollerson

Smoke filled the room. The man at the desk leaned back in his black suit, the lights purposely hiding his face. He had a cigar in one bronzed hand, the powerful bionic handling the plant matter with perfect precision.

“Knew a kid like you once,” he said, “yeah?”

The person he was speaking to could not have been more than twenty. Outside in the harsh chemical rain, loaded up with tattoos and hiding the obvious bulge of a gun under his gang colours, he was the king of the world. In the darkness of the professional’s office, he was a scared kid in an ill-fitting jacket. “Yeah?” he asked, unsure of his words.

The suit swung his legs up over the desk. Any fool could see he was trying to intimidate the youngster. Any fool could see it was working. “He wanted an edge. Thought he could pay for it.” The man coughed haggardly before taking another drag. “Can you pay for it?” he accused in his gravelly voice.

The boy stiffened and nodded, eager to show his strength. “Yes, I-”

“No!” The man interrupted him with a slam on the old wooden desk. “No, you cannot.”

In one fluid motion, the man rose from his chair, letting it clatter to the ground. “You have the money?” he asked. The kid was using all of his nerves to not flee, and simply nodded. “Then what you want is possible. The question is, can you pay for it?”

The kid tried to figure out what the man meant. “I, yeah, I got the G’s right here.” he replied with a mixture of unease and confusion. As he reached into his pocket to pull out the aforementioned cash, a motion from the man’s bronze hand stopped him.

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Not Today

Written by Lumberjacktom

The most precious commodity in the universe... A baby. Image courtesy of babble.com

The most precious commodity in the universe… A baby. Image courtesy of babble.com

Your skin is so smooth, almost translucent on the delicate curve of your sleeping body. I’m overcome by how fragile you look in that moment; your eyes closed, your shoulder length hair splayed across the pillow. I’m trying to tell if you’re beautiful. I think I’ve forgotten what it means. A squat, square face, big eyes, softened by your smile. A child’s face. Innocent. You have a child’s body as well, I might still mistake you for a boy, if there were any of those.

Doc says you’re ready for a child. He tells me you’re strong for your age, that it don’t matter that your breasts haven’t come through yet, that a baby can live on formula just fine. I keep thinking, maybe if I tell them you’re barren, that your womb’s no good, maybe they’d let me keep you. I wouldn’t have to break your fragile little frame, squirt my seed into your tiny body and let a little life grow inside, ’til it forced its way out, and surely split you on its way. Maybe then, when they didn’t care anymore, I could keep you safe, until you were properly a woman, ’til you knew what it meant to bear a child.

But they wouldn’t let me do that. They’d test you this way and that until they were sure, then they’d go inside and have your ovaries. Or put someone else’s baby in, one made in a lab from the chromosomes of men, a perfect little womb-bearer made to specification by the bio-engineers with their microscopes and pipettes. Just like you.

You wouldn’t let me, either. You want a little life too; it’s what a girl is born for, they say. And why wouldn’t you believe them? It’s what you’ve been told all your life, that is. When you grow up, when you come of age and your body says its ready, we’ll find a man for you, and he’ll give you a little one. Wasn’t it what you were born for? Just like the mother they put you in, deemed fit and seeded with life. So of course its what you want. What you say you want, anyway; I think you’re more scared than you say. I think you know you’re too little, too unspoilt by the world, else you would complain more that we haven’t tried. Seems fitting, you say, that we should get to know each other, since we’re a couple now, some kind of courting period. If it goes on much longer, they’ll find out. They’ll spread your legs on the doctor’s couch, and find out I haven’t yet broken you. Then what? Maybe they’ll seed you with someone else, and leave you with me, so I can stand by you; hold your hand while you push out someone else’s child. Or maybe they’d take you from me, say, “If you won’t use her, someone else will.” Scared to be a man. If that’s how you figure it, I’m as much a man as you are a woman, though I was one and a half times your age when you were born.

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Masquerade

Written by Lost in a Dream

A beautiful image for a beautiful poem. Courtesy of Bourbon Theatre.

A beautiful image for a beautiful poem. Courtesy of Bourbon Theatre.

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” – Oscar Wilde

Under an inky sky,
We danced by the river.
Our glasses brimming with wine
And the night unwritten.

Saving our faces,
Our masks were our poetic license.
We re-wrote our roles
While we danced in and out of convention.

Or were our masks our muzzles?
Each one of us a servetta muta
Biting our tongues
To maintain an ill-fitting mask?

It didn’t matter.
Beneath the glitter, gilt and gestures,
It was just a guessing game.
Our masks just heightened the mystery.

If you discover me,
Let it not be by the wagging of my head,
or the touch of a dry hand.
But, know me by a soul coloured feather,
A signature star.

While writing this poem Lost in a Dream was inspired by two plays: “The Rover” and “Much Ado About Nothing”.  This is her fifth entry on Inkblots – here is her first, “October“.

Time Was Standing Still

Has time ever stood still for you?

Written by Lost in a Dream

Frozen in that moment,
Time was standing still

The foreign familiarity of an old song
Forges a link
Between then and now.

The lyrics were hardly profound;
Yet, they seemed perfect at the time.

Now, the individual words are insignificant.

They didn’t sum up how I was feeling,
I doubt I entirely understood them
Five years ago.

But I remember singing them out
With conviction.

Time locked in lyrics and
Memories trapped in chords were free.
I had the privilege of indulging in the past.
Just for a moment, that memory came alive again.

It was as though nothing had changed.