Drink this Poem

…
This poem is a rum
-bled mess, a stress
of syllables and too
much (be)gin. Absinthe
makes its heart grow
fonder. See? It wanders,
over yonder.

This poem is on a bend
-er. Did you find it in a
ditch? I’m not surprised;
it’s bewitched by its
own stupor and super
-iority. Pour it three fingers
of tequila,
with lime. Sans salt.

Drink me,
it says. Shrink me
down to something
that can stand
on its own,
something I can stand
to hold. Tumble(r)
me down some rabbit
hole and pour me a
cup of
{sani}
-tea. Two lumps
of sugar, please.
(You know what?
Make it three.)

This poem is me
-andering about the streets
smelling like a fine Malbec
and a cheap cigar. It’s far
and away the dumbest,
drunkest thing I’ll pen
and peddle today, but
it’s all I’ve got. Shaken.
Stirred. Shirred at edges
by burn
and bitters.

Sip the sky. Gulp the
guffaw that wants to slip
out onto the sidewalk and
crack your funny bones
right through. Tell me this
new numb is nothing
new. Tell me last call,
see ya later, closing
time. Pour me one last
poem and tell me it’s a four
-leaf clover.
I’ll believe you.
Until tomorrow’s hang
………………(is)
 ………..over.

..

 

 

 

Over at dVerse today, Paul has us drinking (in) poems. Come play!  

 

 

 

 

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