Screwery Brewery

To trap his breath, then give, gave up before birth at the kingdom and the clan, impossible truth, he was inside a day, he was inside but now he’s collecting outward at the edges, the hundredth night of the year is always distant, its the last good night, last day that is okay, he’s hunched on the baton criticizing his own eyes, it was he who wades through the rocky pathway and fails full of apathy, one hand weighs on top of the other while both sleep on the metallic edge of the baton, he shouts to flicker the light, and his breath is trapped. He can give newness now, the lights waving horizontally hollering a chance, a probability, his legs draw a sprawl however, dropping at the knees, same old leather jacket, the stiffened tails stick up behind, day dawns, he has only to open his eyes, lift it, to vow afar a promise, a moment past he tackles to hunt, someone divines him, divines us, that’s what he’s come to, come to in the end, a sight to the mind, there divining us, hands and head a little heap, the hours pass, he is still, he seeks a voice to catch a goodbye.

Ruined land, hot, unforgiving ruined land, that he has beaten black with footsteps through the northern lights of Norway, hiking up the Pulpit rock, the best selling show of Scandinavia, trodden black with grunge. He gave up, hugging the lines between the water and the mountain, praying quietly for a little panic to run him up, a little night music. His elbows digging in the rocks as he nestles his head on the grey scatter, confusion of memory and covet of loved ones and impossible youth, grasping the baton from his backpack, in the middle he stumbles bowed over the edge, a life of his own he tried to put in his pockets and drive away in the multitude of meantime, in vain, never any but his, worth nothing, because of being lost, he said it wasn’t one, it was, still is, the same, moments still inside, the same, he’ll put faces in his head, names, places, churn them all up together, all he needs to end, phantoms to flee, last phantoms to flee and to pursue a new zenith for a happy ending.

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20 Comments

    1. Don’t worry. I get 11 to 10 hours of sleep on weekends and 7 to 8 otherwise. 😊

      Also, what did you mean? Is this terrible or is it good enough?

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  1. Very good indeed, Poet. As to why: this piece came closer to a conventional story than anything I have read if yours, even if it is still fragmentary and the beginning and most of the middle of this man’s tale is missing.

    Only twice I recall being moved, discombobulated by a writing and the authors were masters and practiced and, from what I can pick up from you, older than you are when they wrote these pieces. Gustave Flaubert and the Austrian Peter Handke.

    You have a gift. Writing and writing means you are honimg and shaping and sharpening it.

    And I am wondering where you are going with this. Not that it is any of my business. But words carry all the power of our species. So you have the power. And can power just be left lying around to be played with?

    I am going to continue reading you until you are telling whole stories. Then it may be just too dangerous for me. At night and with trepidation because I would like to maintain calm at all times.

    It is almost dawn here and I am reading no more Screwery Brewery or any of you except at night when I feel protected than in the exposing daylight.

    Glad of the sleep. People as woke and creative as you are need lots of sleep, I have no doubt, Poet!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. My longer works are all too bound and collected. I like to experiment on WordPress, just create and create dangerously. I think it expands my range and pushes my limits. But I feel blesses by your honesty. I hope you’ll always tell me wherever I will fail. Thank you so much and have a great life!!

      Liked by 3 people

  2. This reminded me of my Pa and how he must have felt in the war. Probably after it was all over. He never spoke much about it, and to me this felt like how he must have felt so deeply about all he had witnessed. I like the end it made me think I wonder if soldiers do that later put faces to names and places they see in their dreams. Powerful piece Watt. πŸ™‚

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you Michelle for another beautiful reading.
      Soldiers are like brave Gods, so much braver than the humane heavens or any face on earth. Thank you for a drawing a comparison so powerful.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I think my heart always looks for evidence of soul pieces of him. Sometimes it comes in feelings and sometimes it’s words someone says or writes that cause me to say, oh yes, now I understand his silence more. Comforting in a way to me. πŸ™‚

        Liked by 1 person

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