Love it. Some of it sounds familiar. It's similar to some of your other work as far as the phrasing goes, but who cares? That last line is beautiful too.
I haven't heard the term 'crossfaded' in years. Ah, nostalgia! So, the brown paper bag... booze or huffing? Considering the rest of the poem, it definitely seems like... huffing. Just curious about the intention.
Lightning and ribs... both featured heavily in one of my recent poems too. Strange that they seem to go so well together.
Anyway, I think this is one of the best in the contest so far. Love the first stanza... the whole narrative is really solid... the imagery is off-kilter awesome. The "i know i can trust them to do their best at chipping away" is a bit verbose, but that's the only criticism I have. Tighten the last lines after the contest and it will just be gold, man.
I thought maybe you had something else in mind, actually. That's just... how it read to me. Clearly, the emotion can across just fine because that's what I got out of it too.
I definitely have those moments where if anyone speaks to me, looks at me, or touches me, I feel like ripping their face off. It just... happens sometimes.
Teddy bear gore is superior to all other forms. Yeah, man... chew that bear's face right off. Love it! Honestly, pretty amazing description of those 'everything is technically fine, but I'm agitated so fuck off" moments.
Cam kickflips against the cement while his
parents get drunk on the steps behind us and
the saggy flesh in the old folks home across the
street calls the police, waving their dimpled
arms out the windows.
I don't mind Cam's bullshit stories about
clearing fifteen stairs or breaking his teeth on
the blacktop last summer and choose to
nod my head instead of having that: Uh-huh, yes I did
conversation one more time while his
parents roll their eyes and kiss each
other open mouth like horny kids.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers blare from the
stereo in the open kitchen window and I pour
my beer into the cracks between the sidewalk,
drowning ants in the crevices. It tastes like piss
anyway, and after all, these aren't my ants and this
isn't my dilapidated house or my shitty neighborhood,
and those aren't my parents getting feelsy and doozy
ten feet away while they drink their livers into submission.
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