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Thursday, October 26, 2006

An Ode To Old Man Flynn

Wind whispered from the window to wash back the dirty scent of gin
From the breath of the whithered lips of cranky Old Man Flynn
He laughed at the cracks in the walls every day and every night
The heavy lead curtains were taped closed to keep out the light

He would pour the warm liquor sweetly down his lanky arms
It would clean over the wounds that he got long ago on the farms
The blood, dried and crusted, remained like drugged memories
The cracks on the walls itched at him along with the fleas

At times he would laugh like a hyena being skinned alive
He would count the toes and fingers from ten down to five
The jars he kept under the bed, locked to keep out the air
Inside them, treats for The Devil with no room to spare

The wind whispered sweet Spanish songs into his swollen ears
He'd smile and hold his eyeless teddy bear to fight off the tears
Naked and bruised silly, he would stare at the wall's cracks
Hoping any minute, to pick up the scent of long lost tracks

Old Man Flynn would pace up and down the length of this big box
In his own heavenly Hell, feeling rabbid like a death hungry fox
Cutting away at his cuticles for fear of them cutting at him
Dousing his internal flames with another pint of sweet smelling gin

-AP 10/26/06

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