Submissions by Harold-Weathervein (Levi Braathen)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
"You're going to be OKAY Harold....I can hear your God Damn smirk in your voice." '? I....oh...what does it sound like?' "Like....really rusty, not well taken care of Victorian gears grinding together." *smirk*
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
22nd Aug 2014 7:29pm
22nd Aug 2014 7:29pm
It's Never A Woman That Defeats A Man
It's never a woman that defeats a man.
Nor the bottle,
or the cigarettes,
or the drugs,
or the lack of ambition,
or the lack of direction.
It's not his upbringing
or his downfall.
It's not some sort of trivial sequence of consequence.
It isn't the lack of love or being loved.
It isn't the lack of hate or being hated.
First, and foremost,
it could be the lack of all those things.
Some might use such things as a arsenal.
A blanket to keep them warm in a alleyway.
A steadfast mind to build an indestructible wall
to use as a bullet...
Nor the bottle,
or the cigarettes,
or the drugs,
or the lack of ambition,
or the lack of direction.
It's not his upbringing
or his downfall.
It's not some sort of trivial sequence of consequence.
It isn't the lack of love or being loved.
It isn't the lack of hate or being hated.
First, and foremost,
it could be the lack of all those things.
Some might use such things as a arsenal.
A blanket to keep them warm in a alleyway.
A steadfast mind to build an indestructible wall
to use as a bullet...
1089 reads
2 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
1st Jun 2013 7:03am
1st Jun 2013 7:03am
Make Amends Before It Gets Worse (From Third Book)
I'd awoken with a womans arm around me and with enough
whiskey taste in my mouth to get me drunk again.
I take a look around and the room spins a nauseating blur and I
decide it's best to just go back to sleep.
When I awoke the second time, the woman was pacing around in
her kitchen, making, what I believe to be, coffee. I sit up and grab
the bottle of whiskey at the head of the bed, take a soft hit, chase
it with a sip of water, then take another real good slug of Jim
Beam.
She walked in the bedroom and a disgusted look flashed on her ...
whiskey taste in my mouth to get me drunk again.
I take a look around and the room spins a nauseating blur and I
decide it's best to just go back to sleep.
When I awoke the second time, the woman was pacing around in
her kitchen, making, what I believe to be, coffee. I sit up and grab
the bottle of whiskey at the head of the bed, take a soft hit, chase
it with a sip of water, then take another real good slug of Jim
Beam.
She walked in the bedroom and a disgusted look flashed on her ...
1032 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
25th Jan 2013 7:40am
25th Jan 2013 7:40am
Chapter One, Part One of Novel
1
It all happened after i'd gotten out (more importantly over) a
rotten relationship with a woman who may haunt my past. We had been shacked up together and she wanted it three to maybe five times a day. I kept up with the drink to keep up with her libido, and I suppose I just couldn't keep up (it up). She started fucking around town and eventually left. But the trusty bottle had stayed. And I think I got a sandwich or two out of it all...
I'd woken up in a drunken hangover haze from the night before, only to let out a fine groan laying on my back on the floor of a friends...
It all happened after i'd gotten out (more importantly over) a
rotten relationship with a woman who may haunt my past. We had been shacked up together and she wanted it three to maybe five times a day. I kept up with the drink to keep up with her libido, and I suppose I just couldn't keep up (it up). She started fucking around town and eventually left. But the trusty bottle had stayed. And I think I got a sandwich or two out of it all...
I'd woken up in a drunken hangover haze from the night before, only to let out a fine groan laying on my back on the floor of a friends...
936 reads
1 Comment
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
26th Oct 2012 6:19pm
26th Oct 2012 6:19pm
Beer Stained Porcelain
Self defeating medicated drunken slurs on the town.
As we holy drunken fools search for the point,
drowning itself in the pints of beer and the stiff whiskey drinks,
the Devil grinning Barmaids work their magic.
The room eventually spins as I strive to just not give up.
Sometimes I do
and sometimes I forget that it was an option.
And for that,
my luck indirectly shines through my self destructing
thinly
laced
gut.
A cancerous life style this all seems to have become.
A dark age.
A age of running and of ramblin.
A age of misdirected...
As we holy drunken fools search for the point,
drowning itself in the pints of beer and the stiff whiskey drinks,
the Devil grinning Barmaids work their magic.
The room eventually spins as I strive to just not give up.
Sometimes I do
and sometimes I forget that it was an option.
And for that,
my luck indirectly shines through my self destructing
thinly
laced
gut.
A cancerous life style this all seems to have become.
A dark age.
A age of running and of ramblin.
A age of misdirected...
886 reads
1 Comment
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
11th Sep 2012 1:11am
11th Sep 2012 1:11am
You Know It's Just A Drive. (Hitch The Buick)
The sad dark summer night unfolded before me in the form of a
curving road heading north at Eleven Thirty P.M.
The new season hit and the moon had hid it's illuminating face
as if it didn't want to watch me wander without meaning.
I'd had a few beers before I had left and brought three more
(pints) for this pointlessness.
It's calming really.
It sets my head straight driving nowhere behind the caring wheel
of the old Buick and the million yellow dash lines have stories.
They know something.
Maybe everything.
Maybe God has just been hidden in...
curving road heading north at Eleven Thirty P.M.
The new season hit and the moon had hid it's illuminating face
as if it didn't want to watch me wander without meaning.
I'd had a few beers before I had left and brought three more
(pints) for this pointlessness.
It's calming really.
It sets my head straight driving nowhere behind the caring wheel
of the old Buick and the million yellow dash lines have stories.
They know something.
Maybe everything.
Maybe God has just been hidden in...
771 reads
0 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
21st Jul 2012 8:35pm
21st Jul 2012 8:35pm
Getting Started With The Antlers
I'd awoken with the record player missing.
Along with a bottle of Chianti
and a bottle of Vodka.
I rubbed hangover from my right eye,
the oncoming morning vomit from my left,
and saw some note (Or maybe it was a phone call?)
telling me that 'It's over.'
I hadn't a clue nor an idea what had happened
but felt in my stomach that I had done nothing wrong.
So I got out of bed and drove on over to the now ex-lovers apartment.
She was angry.
But she was always angry.
I think she had father issues
and was self conscious about her body.
She...
Along with a bottle of Chianti
and a bottle of Vodka.
I rubbed hangover from my right eye,
the oncoming morning vomit from my left,
and saw some note (Or maybe it was a phone call?)
telling me that 'It's over.'
I hadn't a clue nor an idea what had happened
but felt in my stomach that I had done nothing wrong.
So I got out of bed and drove on over to the now ex-lovers apartment.
She was angry.
But she was always angry.
I think she had father issues
and was self conscious about her body.
She...
797 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
12th Mar 2012 4:54am
12th Mar 2012 4:54am
Well, It Happened. The Captain Is Drinking Again.
Fucking, shitting, and dying is all there is you know?
That's what really binds all our sad souls together in this big mess of life.
See that person over there?
They don't know what the hell they're running towards to or from or even WHY?
Not that one,
or that one over there.
If they say otherwise, it's all just one,
god damn lie,
and a God-Damn SHAM."
An old drunken friend (Andrew) walked into where i was drinking at 7:38 P.M.
and started up all this conversation about (after a three year abscence)
'the end of it ALL'.
...
That's what really binds all our sad souls together in this big mess of life.
See that person over there?
They don't know what the hell they're running towards to or from or even WHY?
Not that one,
or that one over there.
If they say otherwise, it's all just one,
god damn lie,
and a God-Damn SHAM."
An old drunken friend (Andrew) walked into where i was drinking at 7:38 P.M.
and started up all this conversation about (after a three year abscence)
'the end of it ALL'.
...
833 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
20th Nov 2011 00:58am
20th Nov 2011 00:58am
Autumn Drunk
As the second day of Autumn hit
I felt the madness of the bottle linger
and calm down an old drunk soul.
I sit at the typer and see the leaves of grass flow with the wind of the earths very heart
pumping its blood to cleanse the planets hangover from another summer come and gone.
I hear her moan and groan an old painful noise that I myself
have felt to many times over drinks
with good friends,
and know,
she thinks of death.
I have thought of death.
And the bottle continues to give and take the very essence of humanity.
For the Mother, it...
I felt the madness of the bottle linger
and calm down an old drunk soul.
I sit at the typer and see the leaves of grass flow with the wind of the earths very heart
pumping its blood to cleanse the planets hangover from another summer come and gone.
I hear her moan and groan an old painful noise that I myself
have felt to many times over drinks
with good friends,
and know,
she thinks of death.
I have thought of death.
And the bottle continues to give and take the very essence of humanity.
For the Mother, it...
879 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
9th May 2011 6:14am
9th May 2011 6:14am
Writing.
I don't care
what these
literary
pretentious fucks say
about art
about writing
or the world
or you
or me.
the main part of writing
is
simply
having
heart
if you dont have that
then put the pen down kid.
don't try.
and for God-sakes
never force it.
IT WILL COME.
Maybe not when you sit at the desk
today
or tonight
or tomorrow
or the next day
or the day after
or next week
or the week after
or in a month
or in a hellish year
or the many more that come afterwards....
what these
literary
pretentious fucks say
about art
about writing
or the world
or you
or me.
the main part of writing
is
simply
having
heart
if you dont have that
then put the pen down kid.
don't try.
and for God-sakes
never force it.
IT WILL COME.
Maybe not when you sit at the desk
today
or tonight
or tomorrow
or the next day
or the day after
or next week
or the week after
or in a month
or in a hellish year
or the many more that come afterwards....
990 reads
3 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
26th Jan 2011 3:56am
26th Jan 2011 3:56am
Those Women Man...Those Women...(in next compilation)
they're all lions
you can see it in their drunken hazy eyes
while shaking their non-existent tails
underneath their hip tight skirts
that come up
just
high
enough.
not even
in negative five degree weather
will they
give
me
a
break
i catch their glances
from the corner
staring into a half
full
glass
of
dark
beer
they roar
they pounce
they feast
on my heart
my mind
my soul
and whatever it is that i have left
(which isn't much)
but i've the will of a hundred...
you can see it in their drunken hazy eyes
while shaking their non-existent tails
underneath their hip tight skirts
that come up
just
high
enough.
not even
in negative five degree weather
will they
give
me
a
break
i catch their glances
from the corner
staring into a half
full
glass
of
dark
beer
they roar
they pounce
they feast
on my heart
my mind
my soul
and whatever it is that i have left
(which isn't much)
but i've the will of a hundred...
865 reads
2 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
8th Dec 2010 3:25am
8th Dec 2010 3:25am
Pisa still leans on my shoulders.
I re-read the letter you sent me three years ago or so.
It was incased with a picture of you
and you said i seemed "interesting".
How i fooled you into thinking that
is a miracle i wish i could have turned into a skill.
Then i thought of the letter
i've been writing in my head
for the last two and a half years
and realize
it's just a reflection of my own life
in that said time period.
This causes me to break my own rules.
So i crack open a beer
drain it down to the last drop
then another
then sip on the third....
It was incased with a picture of you
and you said i seemed "interesting".
How i fooled you into thinking that
is a miracle i wish i could have turned into a skill.
Then i thought of the letter
i've been writing in my head
for the last two and a half years
and realize
it's just a reflection of my own life
in that said time period.
This causes me to break my own rules.
So i crack open a beer
drain it down to the last drop
then another
then sip on the third....
821 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
9th Nov 2010 11:35pm
9th Nov 2010 11:35pm
oh yeah, i forgot to mention
i was on a week long drunk
after a week long affair
to make up for time i suppose.
you phoned me
and I said things
you told me
i'd already said earlier in that week
it was June
you mentioned some man
trying to rip your breasts off
in a moment
of drunken
intimate
idiocy
and i sat and listened
til two a.m.
we said we'd keep in touch
we didn't
and i've moved three (four?)
times since then
i thought
"i'm not that good at trying"
so i didn't
But,
I hope you liked
the...
after a week long affair
to make up for time i suppose.
you phoned me
and I said things
you told me
i'd already said earlier in that week
it was June
you mentioned some man
trying to rip your breasts off
in a moment
of drunken
intimate
idiocy
and i sat and listened
til two a.m.
we said we'd keep in touch
we didn't
and i've moved three (four?)
times since then
i thought
"i'm not that good at trying"
so i didn't
But,
I hope you liked
the...
943 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Harold-Weathervein (Levi Braathen)
