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Ad patres el prostitute (Free verse) by <{Baba^Yaga}>

At the back door of a church on Sunday. In an alley off of St. Andrews, again. Beating off the cold stink he is waiting. For father to find him a hot viand & coat. Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Silently, he eats with both hands faster then it takes the priest to swallow along with him. The staticy air gets more tolerable as both decide to loosen up the other's collar Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Underneath a full moon, but still dusking. He notices that brother and sister are sharing the same sky. Just as the fire drowns down into a dark blue expanse of rippless heart-ache. Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Hungry again, but too exhausted to search any further then the edge of a playground. Near the beach and his Father's Mission Bells sing to him, tonight he shall have sleep. Now son, you may close your own eyes.

Lord Ganus 23-Feb-03/8:24 PM
Why am I wrong? Because I've not been an altar boy or a male hustler? Am I to believe that this needs to be the case for a reader to appreciate this work? What exactly, is a poetic success if this is? If I am comparing this story to what 'they' have taught me to compare it to, isn't everyone? And isn't any criticism of anything by anyone based on a comparison of the thing and what 'they' have taught us to believe? Do you even want criticism? It seems you are principally opposed to it. The somber reality behind this poem has nothing to do with this as a piece of poetry. I could write a poem about my cat that died when I was in the third grade but it would take more than the fact that my cat died to make the poem good. It would take more than imagery, skill, craft and all the rest - it would require some evidence of an effort to say something to some audience. Without this evidence the poem would be pointless, and by extension disrespectful to my dead cat.




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