Thursday, November 21, 2013

Two poems by Andrew J. Stone

Blood on Us All

I eat bullets for breakfast. Except I don’t chew them, and now that I think about it, I don’t really eat them at all. But so many sit in the base of this bowl and I have no real use for them.
I hate Jimmy and you would too. One day, I tripped and fell into his arms and the papers he held fell with me. Goddamnit he says. You cock sucking faggot he says. I say sorry and he shakes his head. He says he doesn’t have time for a piece of shit like me, who can’t even make his parents love him. He says I’m lucky. I wish I could say he’s right. He is, except I’m not lucky.


This is how Jimmy will die: in a bathroom stall, the one he uses almost everyday after third period English, with a bullet embedded in his brain; the same bullet I ate for breakfast, the same bullet that slept in my bed, the same bullet that Jimmy has given me everyday since I first met him in the first grade.

the way in which dylan’s daddy died
i saw death on his tongue which at first looked a soft natural pink as it lolled but then the deep dark red came and he tried to say something but goddamnit i didn’t listen i couldn’t listen you see because the sun stopped shining long ago and the only light came from the stars or the gunshots which kept gaining ground and i was afraid i was afraid so i didn’t listen but i ran and i hid and i watched the men laugh and spit and piss on my best friend and i watched him die and i watched the blood slip away from his skin and then it became too much and i cried for not listening and i cried for the men i killed i cried and in my hand i realized i was gripping something like a paper thin slice of bread except it wasn’t a paper thin slice of bread but a picture of a baby boy who i knew i would raise and whose existence just might erase the inerasable and that is how your daddy died 

Author bio: 
Andrew J. Stone divides his time between Seattle and Los Angeles. He can often be found wearing socks. He has had work appear in Hobart, Gutter Eloquence, and DOGZPLOT, among other places. He dwells in the graveyard:

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