A
midweek medley of finished whiskeys
has
left no Marlboroughs
and
sleep has shirked work-for-the-dole.
I
shall, instead, work for the soul.
I
shall buy vodka and tomato juice,
pick
lemons from the tree,
to
extend this time floating free
between
those drinks and my pending hangover,
to
tighten the rope hanging over
the
abyss of wasted, wayside life.
Fuck
it. I shall buy
time on
a time-poor market.
I know
a guy. A girl. A woman.
Do a
deal with a new devil
with
new wares on their new level
of
Bloody Hell. Bloody Mary.
Consult
the mirror for hair of the dog
and
she emerges from the fog
of
groggy memory.
I
shall recover with my lover, for now,
high
on life and
the
come-down is a bitch.
This
poem first appeared in the September 2017 issue of The Martian Chronicle.
Issuu
- Pagehttps://issuu.com/theparagonjournal/docs/volume_eight___september_2017-merged
not found
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