So yeah,
And I'm like
"Duhhhhh!
Whisky, man. Malt Liquor Whisky!
And he reeks of the stuff
Ya know
That engrained smell of alcohol
That means someone IS NOT drunk
But A Drunk.
He saw I saw.
He had those stubby hands.
He saw I saw
Short fat steady fingers
Perfect four
twisting the caps
off bottles
Sure to a day
In hell
Nails bitten down like mine
Only worse
Coz they weren't mine
An' I mean
That stubble
Only a hard life gets that rough
You can't hide
IT
This guy
Cried alcohol
And that's why
His tears stung so
"nine ninety nine," he said
"Really? 999?
Fuck!
I'd best take a lottery ticket too.
I have a lot of poems like this. I guess I thought I was crazy. It is good to know I have at least one other person on the planet that thinks the same way that I think. I am in America and it smells badly.
ReplyDeleteIf I could cry my drug of choice, I'd be super sad with a cup under each eye
ReplyDeleteI've been reading your excellent poetry,although I don't mind telling you some of it is way more dank than I've ever read before. The hopelessness and disgust that you describe sometimes has one wondering what keeps a person writing w/o just doing theirselves in. I admire your clarity of thought as you can mine these memories into verses to keep the beast at bay.
ReplyDelete