Hard Liquor – Steve Sibra

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.


Above all

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.


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