I am not a drunk
but when the bottle talks, I listen.
Only a fool doubts the wisdom of bourbon on ice.
If the flames of my own fury
render me to ash – well then, whisk me away
to a quiet corner, or under the baseboard’s lip
I have nothing to offer
guests will track me all over your good carpet
so brush off my dust
from the sagging doorway of your white-washed recollection.
you must not let me sing, or play the piano
my music offends the spirits.
I don’t mean the ones in the bottle
I mean the ones who melt from the walls like apologies
to God for the Death of Love
The ones who proliferate all suffering and misery
The ones who cast out anvils like fishing lures
to crush the heads of the bleating flock
to sink the hopes of the righteous and forbearing.
The ones who bathe in the blood of the innocents
congeal on the surface of the organized mind
clot in the throat like a sunken promise
I mean the ones who distill all thought
In to purest regret
behind unlit windows of unbroken pain.