A Cruel, Cold Weapon

Poem 4.
Joseph Altamore

[A Lost Metaphor]

didn’t really ever
hit us

there was the occasional
or shove, the spit
in the face
but for
a man with
anger that weakened
the pillars of hell,
he was surprisingly in control

he did, however, have a
weapon of choice:

a cold glass of

she would
cry, scream, cry, scream,
and all at once
he would pounce upwards
out of
his desk
the couch
their bed

she always
where he was going
“don’t you dare, you fucking
bastard! don’t you fucking
but he had already made it
to the sink
by then

as the terrible
shot out of the nozzle
it was as if
he was a demigod
of sorts
as if
he had channeled the
powers of
as if
all of the elements
of nature collectively
rallied for him:

“smite thy woman, albert!”

and he would
chase her
while the food was cooking
chase her
while the morning news was playing
chase her
while the phone was ringing

and that
was no longer
that water was
truth serum, love potion
sulphuric acid
whatever he desired it
to be

but for
it was just



Joseph Altamore is an emerging poet from Rockford, IL. His work is usually prose style poetry. He has been writing for four years but only very recently decided to submit his work for publishing. So far, he has been published in an online publication named Dead Snakes.


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I am a dreamer, as well as a doer, who lives in the North Georgia mountains. I started my publishing journey August of 2013, have had moderate success, but my utmost passion is my "daytime" job, which is working with adults who are constantly striving to better their lives as they obtain the GED credential.

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