Early Morning Cocktails
the dragon-filled meadows come to life
again
as I stare at the sweating glass of gin and tonic.
ten in the morning, no better way to prepare for
another day of pure nothingness—the bars last night
were rough, no new faces,
only whiskey nursing flies and we had someone to ache for,
a face we tried to drink away till last call came and stumbled
our way home—some to the nearest park, others to their
little corners underneath bridges made of snow.
tiny dark room, encapsulated by
thick clouds of blue smoke; there were no fights, aside from one I picked
with a lamppost that wouldn’t budge,
and no women. the drink gives me strength
to carry on for another day and hope for a different result.
in the grasp of insanity for years, always looking for
ways out, even when I want in.
the glass’s dangerously empty, one poem more than enough
to drain it;
time for a stronger refill, save on the tonic for
when she comes back.
Horror Sleaze Trash 