Poetry / kitchen counter eulogies.
There’s red paint slabbed on the kitchen faucet
From you trying to cover your scars
And the cliché drains from your arms like a 15 year old goth girl’s story
I’ve read those lines so many times, so many ways, so many lives before
And your misery fogs up the kitchen windows
Little beads like blood and sweat drip down the dirty glass
Four more weeks, in four more cities
They’ve let you down this time, no more
I don’t envy your assertion to failure
Dried ruby red tulips lining linoleum dressed countertops
And your vivid fantasies of cherry oak caskets
Of preachers and well embellished eulogies
It’s such a dirty kitchen
Such a dirty boy
Such a dirty dirty kitchen
And so this is how you’ll really be remembered
A million failed attempts
Coughing up sleeping pills and vomit on an un-swept checkered floor
And you’ll see so much glory in your live journal suicide notes
Romanticizing it like a pop song
But after six or so failed attempts, we’ve stopped listening you know
I’ve heard that story so many times, so many ways, so many lives before
Tapping slowly on broken keys, broken wrists
You mean it this time
Yeah, you mean it this time
And so this is how you’ll be remembered
When the neighbors call in about the smell
Rotting away on your kitchen floor
And there’s red pain drizzled over the kitchen faucet
From trying to cover your scars
And the cliché has drained from your arms like a 15 year old cry for attention
But you made it this time
you made it this time
So here’s your fucking eulogy
Written on your kitchen walls
Such a dirty dirty kitchen
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I gave you straight 9’s in my ratings. I seriously hesitate to give someone an 8, but I absolutely love this piece. This may be only the second 9 I’ve ever given for the Poetry – Overall goal. Oh my god. I have read SOOOO many poems between Urbis and other sites that had suicide in them at the end, and this is literally the first one that I have ever read (including a few i’ve written myself) where putting a suicide at the end of a poem actually makes it work. If this is based on a true story, then you have my deepest sympathies. I’m used to treating poetry as fiction, though, so please forgive my insensitivity if this is real, but about halfway through your poem I started to get excited. This poem and this story would not have worked at all if the suicide hadn’t happened, but SOOOOO many poets, especially confused teenagers, glorify suicide as a way out or an escape or a thrill, and this perfectly deflates the glory of it all. I believe the persona. I believe the aftermath. Likewise, the third line from the bottom is a very appropriate use of the f-word. I’ve seen tons of poems too where swearing is just casually toseed in for fun, and only about 3-5% of those poets actually know when it’s a good time to swear. Swearing right there adds to this poem and was a very good choice. The imagery is just referential enough to not be over-the-top, the use of the word “dirty” is powerful and emotional even though, and possibly because, it’s a children’s word being applied to a very grownup situation. The echo from the beginning that you placed near the end made me wonder for a second if this was in the song lyrics section, but I think developing this into a song would actually deflate it a little bit. What else can I say? A great, solid piece of poetry. VERY well done.
Butterat Zool.
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I enjoyed the anger in this, honestly. I would suggest changing “Live Journal” to something else. There are a lot of emotions conveyed here, but the one overshadowing all others is intimacy. It is clear that the subject is cared for deeply, regardless of the rage.
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