Written by: nette onclaud

Before lamplight’s panels close the day, I sneak into this sacramental hallway fueling my pagan howls where I can be the raw-weed part of me: a time when lines are strewn on the floor--- spilling the bones of my own fonts, scratched and bent. Here, the ink bleeds of how i watched the pellet sun grate dusky leaves among stones, or why old man Charlie picked his a regular bench on the park, talking to himself motionless as if a 40s band were playing in his head. More hooves stampede as the gas light blinks with the harlequin moon, touching my solar plexus, my zodiac beginnings: still, the blots cough more profane curses and blessed litanies of haunting notes releasing a full- blown scream. Somehow, morphine hours wear off from a trance…I walk in limbo upon wings of paper trails flooded with drunken ABCs , outpouring secrecy of thoughts. My mind locks the speech of breath's eyes in a final hymn: the drama and comedy of one day make me a student aging anniversaries: my bile hurts no more... The spine of pen and words collapse as my fingers open new stars waxing new gloss. Joann Grisetti’s Contest: Drunken Pen 2 by nette onclaud