Brenton Booth

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 16, 2013

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Bio: Brenton Booth writes poetry and prose. He resides in Sydney, Australia. Anything else worth knowing about him can be found in his work.

 

 

ONE OF THE SPECIAL ONES

 

when he drank his eyes moistened and cheeks flushed

and he’d talk about the old times—the times when people

were still people, not what they owned, and when the

streets and buildings of sydney had history and the

men were men and women still women and kids were

kids and played in those streets free and without fear

until sundown when their mothers called them in for

dinner. and with every drink he’d get sadder and sadder.

though his face was unable to hide its hurt. he was an

honest drunk. me, i am full of shit when i drink. i pretend

positive and lie about everything. i haven’t seen him now

for years. though wherever he is, he is far better than me.

 

 

BRIGHT LIGHTS

 

Hung over in a Las Vegas hotel room

at 8am with the shades drawn and my

body full of whiskey and lots of other

stuff I shouldn’t have done.

looking at a picture frame on the wall

containing a black and white photograph of

an old Hollywood star.

I could remember seeing some of her films

when I was a kid.

back then she was really something,

though I hadn’t heard of her doing anything

new for years:

how quickly that body that turned on millions

of men

and taught millions of boys about the virtues

of women was taken away from her–

like a harsh cut in a film she never agreed on.

she looked lonely on the wall–

now needing people that no longer needed her.

next to my bed on a table lay a yellow notepad;

it was completely blank.

I guess I was in perfect company:

three fallen angels

burned up by the bright lights,

wondering when the next chapter would begin.

 

 

CEMETARY

 

When we first got cars we

would meet of a night and

drive for hours in the

darkness. Most the time

we’d end up stopping at

graveyards. They really

interested us then. We’d

sit on someone’s grave

drinking whiskey and

talking. We were never

afraid of ghosts—we

knew they were just

invented to make

otherwise dull places

seem more exiting.

Sitting in those graveyards

of a night seemed to calm

us. There was nothing

unknown there—just death.

Everything was simple there,

in a time of great confusion for

us all. After a while we stopped

meeting up. We all changed and

went our separate ways—rarely

even seeing each other anymore.

All working full-time jobs to pay

our way in society. In buildings

that no matter how hard I tried to

find another comparison, felt exactly

like those graveyards.

 

 

 

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