My
withered eyes
my strong posture …
limbs limp and a head barely held upright.
Never has a verse been born
out of mere necessity…
Elements and planets
collide in this dance.
The loneliness and the piss,
a forced silence and bad take out.
Pour more; the pain is unstopping.
To quiet outside, to loud inside.
The lungs ache and burn from
the million cigarettes and a biting winter.
What is it about poets and booze?
Is there no other way to distill a verse than an inebriated mind?
A crystal so pure,
glimmering in the hazy fogy December sun.
Distilled out of all that you are.
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