Except when we suffered from those mental lapses kids tend to get
when only a good swat to the back of the head ignites thought,
with the intention of reminding,
we boys know nothing of the addiction that plagues us brothers.
Even if it was more the thought and threat than the promise,
there were enough times debts got paid and you learned which way is left,
right,
when to turn back, slow down, and 'dag nabbit newt' and what knots.
As his sons, we stand the inheritors of greatness.
Three hours, four boys, and five dead flies later with swats to the head or
two;
no one recalls why we care to be here.
A reminder in the cooler breaks the tension before a callous quiet continues.
Closing my eyes I feel the sway and in my tugging of thoughts, a
war torn membrane.
Dehydrated, I find myself throbbing to the right and then back to the left
like a metronome to a stringed concert where a grand piano, center stage,
needs tuning.
Dancing waves play with the passing cotton overhead and I avoid the little
brother weeping and swaying.
The poor willow, better him than me.
Boys are buoys bobbing, able to handle extreme weather and my face pretends
to accept sun
while lungs imagine air that's never salty.
One could swear you were there were it not for a higher consciousness.
A battery of the same old shit and an ocean of memories enclosed by the
white gold of your shoreline;
thank you for when you hugged me, high five.
In those times with or without a tug on my line
there was more than I bargained for at the market, old man.
Seasons of journeying and river runs too close,
we found men voyaging on the sea, captain,
and when I had good news you would let us call our mother.
High fives all-a-round
and the boys could be boys for a moment.
Standing in the shallows
you throw us one by one
into the deep end.
We would breathe out our youth
and inhale blood, sweat.
With the rising and falling of waves
we children follow prints in sand much larger than our feet.
Surely, a man grows accustomed to this life but deep in pits the pain still
churns.
It is in the gut of virginity, like the back of the boat,
that is no place for a novice.
You'll learn real quick that what makes you sick might be my cure.
For every scaled softy I see in all you there lies what mattered most to us
kids;
we wanted to catch a king.
We were willing to wear and break crowns to get them.
By: Mark Sutherland
---
Gary's Comments / Suggestions
"Aqua Monarchs" <qmarks are not necessary<
Except when we suffered from those mental lapses kids tend to get <great opening line: solid rhythm and use of language<
when only a good swat to the back of the head ignites thought,
with the intention of reminding,
we boys know nothing of the addiction that plagues us. <boys? brothers?
Even if it was more the thought and threat than the promise,
there were enough times debts got paid and you learned which way is left,
right,
when to turn back, slow down, and 'dag nabbit newt n' what not. <strong stanza until this part--just not getting it<
As his sons, we stand the inheritors of greatness.
Three hours, four boys, and five dead flies later with swats to the head or
two;
no one recalls why we care to be here.
A reminder in the cooler breaks the tension before a fearsome quiet
Closing my eyes I feel the sway and in my tugging of thoughts,
war torn membrane.
Dehydrated, I find myself throbbing to the right and then back to the left
like a metronome to a stringed concert where a grand piano, center stage,
needs tuning. <perfect images / comparisons
Dancing waves play with the passing cotton overhead and I avoid the little
brother weeping and swaying.
The poor willow, better him than me.
Boys are buoys bobbing, able to handle extreme weather and my face pretends
to accept sun
while lungs imagine air that's never salty.
One could swear you were there were it not for a higher conscious. <consciousness?
A battery of the same old shit and an ocean of memories enclosed by the
white gold of your shoreline;
thank you for when you hugged me, high five. <nice visual images in this stanza: well done<
In those times with or without a tug on my line
there was more than I bargained for at the market, old man.
Seasons of journeying and river runs too close,
we found men voyaging on the sea, captain,
and when I had good news you would let us call our mother.
High fives all-a-round
and the boys could be boys for a moment.
Standing in the shallows
you throw us one by one
into the deep end.
We would breathe out our youth
and inhale blood, sweat.
With the rising and falling of waves
we children follow prints in sand much larger than our feet.
Surely, a man grows accustomed to this life but deep in pits the pain still
churns.
It is in the gut of virginity, like the back of the boat,
that is no place for a novice.
You'll learn real quick that what makes you sick might be my cure. <nice internal rhyme
For every scaled softy I see in all you there lies what mattered most to us
kids;
we wanted to catch a king.
We were willing to wear and break crowns to get them.
Excellent use of language, Mark. I like the extended maritime metaphor. What's missing and what would pull this long piece together is a story. You're stream of consciousness is broad and general (yet excellently written), but if you tied in a specific narative, too, this piece would truly rock. --Gary
---
First Draft
"Aqua Monarchs"
Except when we suffered from those mental lapses kids tend to get
when only a good swat to the back of the head ignites thought,
with the intention of reminding,
we boys know nothing of the addiction that plagues us.
Even if it was more the thought and threat than the promise,
there were enough times debts got paid and you learned which way is left,
right,
when to turn back, slow down, and 'dag nabbit newt n' what not.
As his sons, we stand the inheritors of greatness.
Three hours, four boys, and five dead flies later with swats to the head or
two;
no one recalls why we care to be here.
A reminder in the cooler breaks the tension before quiet ensues.
Closing my eyes I feel the sway and in my tugging of thoughts there rest a
war torn membrane.
Dehydrated, I find myself throbbing to the right and then back to the left
like a metronome to a stringed concert where a grand piano, center stage,
needs tuning.
Dancing waves play with the passing cotton overhead and I avoid the little
brother weeping and swaying.
The poor willow, better him than me.
Boys are buoys bobbing, able to handle extreme weather and my face pretends
to accept sun
while lungs imagine air that's never salty.
One could swear you were there were it not for a higher conscious.
A battery of the same old shit and an ocean of memories enclosed by the
white gold of your shoreline;
thank you for when you hugged me, high five.
In those times with or without a tug on my line
there was more than I bargained for at the market old man.
Seasons of journeying and river runs too close,
we found men voyaging on the sea, captain,
and when I had good news you would let us call our mother.
High fives all-a-round
and the boys could be boys for a moment.
Standing in the shallows
you throw us one by one
into the deep end.
We would breathe out our youth
and inhale blood, sweat.
With the rising and falling of waves
we children follow prints in sand much larger than our feet.
Surely, a man grows accustomed to this life but deep in pits the pain still
churns.
It is in the gut of virginity, like the back of the boat,
that is no place for a novice.
You'll learn real quick that what makes you sick might be my cure.
For every scaled softy I see in all you there lies what mattered most to us
kids;
we wanted to catch a king.
We were willing to wear and break crowns to get them.
By: Mark J. Sutherland
No comments:
Post a Comment