December 7, 2011
By SylviaSalinger BRONZE, Los Angeles, California
SylviaSalinger BRONZE, Los Angeles, California
4 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again...
Faint whispers of Simon and Garfunkel
Metal rimmed eyes peering at the open freeway
Analytical, always.
I know the man, he knows me.
Snarling and rubbing his hands together, I watch him eat.
The way he eats drumsticks
Strips of flesh, flashes of flayed meat.
The sun on his back,
Blood, beads of sweat, and no tears, just like he taught.
Clutching my clammy hands and crying
"Honey, the world is brutal, and you're a victim."
Because he thinks he is,
Picturing drunk dreams.
His T.V. crushing sweet summer.
He wasn’t savage the day before yesterday.
But Sunday was still Daddy's day.
The swoosh of cars, an Ira Glass monotone.
“On this American life…”
Programming, minimal,
Whatever was on the radio.
I closed my eyes, head nuzzling gently.
He kept a hand on the wheel, and one dangling.
His inhumanness is all right.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book