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Drunk Talk (for my friend wilton allen)

we drank together way back when
several times a week
you sneaking beer in the boiler room
i with my gin on the end of my couch
we talked as boats and bicycles passed you by
as slow as the minutes you said she took
to get ready for anything anywhere

the tulips burst open in the netherlands
wonderlands just out of reach
your voice was a fragrance enveloping me
shedding too tall tales from your talented tongue
like segments from a tape worm
bursting out in droves rushing to spread
each one disconnecting to grow
leaving intact the mother lode

regaled by your stories i saw you as
tom sawyer, huck finn, a boy who stole bread
unfairly punished in reformatories
bringing bad boys to life on the pages
you sent me typed perfectly you
the stone that always slipped from the pile
on top of the hill and slid down
bouncing back up when it hit the ground
refusing to be still

you griped about amelia
but you flew to the land where tulips bloom
after a single night in a usa bar
you always said if you play you pay
and i never really figured out
if you loved or had ever loved her
and of course i never knew
if she loved or had ever loved you

you said you'd be waiting for me up there
if you were first or i'd wait for you
with a case of heinekin or a bottle of gin
and you'd still spin
tall tales for me
in heaven

you could hold an ocean of beer in your belly
but your lungs didn't hold that well
they clogged like stagnant ponds clog with algae
the kind farmers drain and drain again
i was sick for a week with a flu like the curse
of a gypsy i angered with too little pay
to sick to get up and talk through the wall
i missed a last chance at a last phone call
but i pulled through i broke the gypsy curse
and sent amelia a short email
my condolences expressed
told her i knew how much you'd loved her
and that if there was anything at all that i could do . . . . .
truth is, if there was anything i could do
i'd resurrect the dead

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 

Comments

piece of work! I love the pain felt here. I was pulled in by the title, then I couldn't stop reading; as if I were watching something bad happen and couldn't look away. Like an accident on the road, where everyone slows to see what happened. I understand
why you sent the message and the silence that you got back. It was all good, all the way through. ~Geezer.
.

Come to Chat on the Darkside
every other Saturday night 8pm to ?
Bring your dark and delicious work
to show.

I expected something more.

It's a reminiscence many of us could relate to, yet lacks something... redemption? A point? I can't give it to you however it remains to me a personal poem. Who is it for besides wilton? Wilting? Sad? Is that all?

I know! Wilton and Catherine sitting in a tree
K.I.S.I.S.S.I.N.G!
You loved him, dincha!
Unrequited love doth still the substance of poetry make.
Onya, Cathy, sad yet strong. No other crit.

cheers,
Jess
A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'
https://www.neopoet.com/workshop/rhythm-and-meter-poetry

Its a rather compelling read, like that bastard book you can't put down.

Thought it great.
Obi.

thanks again for the comments. no i did not love him other than as a dear friend. he did not love me any other way either. the comment earlier about his wife's silence - didn't mean it the way it may have sounded. i heard about wilton's death from a mutual friend and i sent her an email. she sent me one of his funeral notices. we had never communicated and as far as i know she had no problem with out friendship. in addition to telling a sad story (and i feel no need for redemption for anything) i was telling and showing. if readers can empathize with this maybe it is not so bad. if they cannot i failed. my interest (and my desire for critique even if you want to stab the paper i wrote it on with the pen i wrote it with lol) is to improve my technique. so - why would something redemptive improve it? why does it seem that redemption is needed - i did not mean to imply that. maybe i saw it but i did not write it that way. what would improve it, or is it just not worth it? my feelings are not easily hurt i'm a tough old broad so let me have it as to why it does not work, if you think it does not.

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