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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

AS MEN
By Talon Florig

 

 

 

 

As Men

As men we are taught that a woman’s walls are to be conquered, their gates to be crashed. We learn that only in the thrill of the hunt will we find the sweetest kill. We are taught that aggression is the surest path of a companion. Modern man pursues because “not interested” just means “hard to get.”
I’ve learned that a hunt is the surest path to a corpse because she keeps trying to killing herself.  I think that we pursue prizes not people. I discovered aggression leads to hatred. I've learned crashing gates and conquering walls makes me a siege weapon and I’ve never known a battering ram to be a compassionate lover.

 

 

 

 

 

Homeless Baggage

When you live from couch to couch the only luggage you bring is the knowledge that you’re not good enough to stay
When someone lets you in the only question that follows you through the door is: when are they going to ask you to leave.
So you cart your burden on your back or bike but it always gets to their place first. It takes up the comfiest part of the couch so no matter which way you lay you’re reminded that you cannot stay
Friends might house you for a night or 2, but then you migrate from coffee shops in the morning to bars at night hoping to meet someone new because: “John will let me crash Tuesday and Friday, but what the hell am I going to do Wednesday?”
But each time you sleep on their furniture or floor you’ve used up a piece of the universe’s good will. So you try to give it back. You look for proof that you aren’t just a sinkhole person pulling whatever scraps of charity you can. You cook breakfast, buy them coffee with your last three dollars, and pretend to be a conversationalist. But in the back of your mind you are just wondering if they have a spare mattress.
When you’re homeless in your 20’s you end up with a homeless heart.
Sure, best friends, strangers and everything in between can give you a warm place to sleep. But you will never let yourself stay.

 

 

 

 

Atomic Metaphors


I didn’t mean to leave my metaphors here
Sometimes they just spill out of my skull and end up on the floor
And try as I might to scoop them up before someone hits their head from slipping on my words
I do miss a few
They sneak away from my clean up crew
arms and rebound all around the room
Like Little Landmines left lying around.
We all have nuclear arsenal hearts
I’m sorry I didn’t keep mine under better watch and lock
I keep giving the access codes to anyone who strolls through the fucking door
And even though I bolted my bunker shut, and layered it in concrete
my walls still crumble crack
And these atomic metaphors slip through the seams
Each Heartbeat. Detonate.
I hope you can forgive my missile operator negligence.
These hand grenades loaded with shrapnel spiked words
Were never meant for you









Night Life


My body doesn't let me
Drink with my friend
I'll take
Ginger ale
Instead
Of a fiery whiskey burning down my throat to the cheers of my companion.
I'll take a water
At 11pm

 

 

 

 

Hiding. Losing.

Hiding things is never a skill I developed
Losing them, now that’s something I’ve been practicing.

 

 

 

About the Author:

Talon

Talon Florig is a slam fist heart break panic attack put on paper. His metaphors are blunt instruments used to beat the past into submission. Talon writes about shame, regret, pain and suffering, sure. But Talon always manages to instill a sense of hope in his words.

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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