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Updated: Thu, 23 Oct 2014 12:12 am

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the man on the motor outside my window- black as day curtain-covered- is my father I wonder politely what the grass did to him: nothing he could have done to me nothing he could have done nothing different nothing like that night when I was five and didn't want to be tickled in a dark room like the one I inhabit now as I copy down my own words I threatened to shoot my own father not the one up there no I don't trust his pointing finger this father more realistic harsh and unfeeling- ever wonder where I got the idea from?- he left and came back with his rifle loaded it pointed it at me thrill of a second shot spit and anger I hid under my bed-side table with the little drawer where I kept all the secrets I wished I had to keep my plastic ponies company I was used to hysteria by the time I could talk and realized sometimes people wouldn't talk back so I talked back for them but in this moment the hysteria didn't speak I cried like a selfish bitch reassured of what I was then my father handed me the gun "I am your father and you are going to shoot me- fucking shoot right at my heart." and he took his pointer finger and circled the target coordinate a good poet would recollect the feel of the gun on my knees and the weight and the measurements perhaps the caliber but I was five and this was real unlike most of my new-found realities one last point towards the cause and the ending- drilling back through the salty shit moister on my chin in my cheeks flooding irises all I knew was the afternoon we spent lying on his bedroom floor me on his chest pretending not to be pressed there for his heartbeat "no, it's O.K. you can listen. put your head back." crouched under the table now head hanging down eyes tight "put your head back goddammit." thankfully he got tired of standing, took the gun and took his leave


DOUBLE DOSE The thing about sanity Is Absolutely nothing; It does not exist Sighing I repeat his opening line Before the show I’m insanely in love With you Deep satin wailing Inside my vessels Sailing in a line Of all real numbers Sleeping in a dark Purple chair The metal sits To pass time Wait on the bed Dressed in skin He’ll remember you Soon enough Holes caressing Needles Doctors give me life You thought I was Shooting up I blew my face Out of my mind Oh there it goes Only I saw Balloons across the sky Spilling acid rain On my one-man parade Hold still Their words seem to Stay

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Tommy Carroll

Wed 26th Nov 2014 02:19

Good to see you

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Tommy Carroll

Mon 21st Jul 2014 23:00

Haha I like the sly intellect in the 'black-out' work. Very...well you know who I mean. As I say, clever. And good work too. Tommy

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Dave D Poet Rhumour

Thu 19th Jun 2014 02:22

Thanks for your comments Katie, you are very kind :) Best wishes Dave

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 18th Jun 2014 11:14

Katie, I have been sliding over your entries because the use of such identifications as 'Pity-Poetry' usually indicates a very self-absorbed, immature dumping of personal angst best resolved in a diary until the critical urge passes, and a more reasoned need for sharing ideas emerges.

I was wrong. I will earnestly do some catch-up because you are definitely worth reading. I see we have two 'fav poets' in common. I NEVER go that route; that is, until recently.

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Graham Sherwood

Tue 10th Jun 2014 09:43

Hello Katie

Welcome to Write Out Loud.

I hope you enjoy the site. We're really looking forward to reading some of your work and I know that you will be warmly welcomed by other WOL-ers too.

Thanks for uploading your photograph. It’s good to see what our fellow poets look like.

Have a good browse around, there’s lots going on and if you have the time to make some comments about the work of other poets please feel free. It’s the best way to get some constructive feedback about your own work too.
There’s always someone who’ll help you out with a problem, so just ask and someone will get back to you. It’s a friendly place, so welcome once again.

Graham Sherwood

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