sometimes drunk poems are the best

slow days
banged out
and bleeding blue blood
dressed like a bum
as old news, and tired shoes
wait for the new moon
impossible remedy
always late
and fate
has a way of stirring my eyes
toward a certain semblance
of faulty perfection

the art is in the execution
and there are no priests left
to grant you absolution
as the silver screen burns around the edges
of your story book ending

stumbling through my closed kitchen
and staring at my desolate island counter
there are six cans
of empty scotch ale
and the light seems to shine
at the most inconvenient moments
as the early morning toilet god
is filled and relieved
it’s all bullshit
but it’s my bullshit
so that’s just alright with me

careless we roam
waiting to discover the other side of noon
as reality spells doom
and i am
nothing but words
written in empty spaces
abridged in focused places
of abbreviation
and amalgamation

stars rise and fall
waiting to be born
into something fashionable and untrained
and fables hold no sway here
as we spit fire and
harvest radical roses
from an arcade graveyard

don’t stop to think
embrace the song of
the great yellow bird
and strike a chorus
with hands of self immolation
as perspiration from indefinite perpetrations
linger on furrowed brows
i can’t wait for tomorrow
and i can’t live with today

beer grants us grace in a fallen fashion
as the creature from the clocktower
gazes
in phases
of an indifferent moon
and red tires roll
with vagrant patrons of yesterday’s prophecies

confused, let us set the table
and consume a breakfast of wild flowers
while we dream of killing
these false and weighted routines

resident monkeys stare through a cellphone mist
and wonder when their time will come
as useless humans dine with spirits
that guide precipitous hands
and chainsaw cutthroats
dance like scrambled atoms
of contrasting creation

kill what’s left
and rise again they say
breathe fumes from an empty can
fate is such a cruel mistress
and
i write this poem and
dedicate it to all the women
who think my poetry is great
and to all the trees
for they are the first and the last
with a neutral glance
i ponder the last meaning of night
as greed calls lust
it’s lucky cousin
and the black and white godless cat
grants me another passive submission

poetry needs no reason
always alone
but strong beyond reason
i need a modest light
i’m not like other men
and some of you know this
i need instinct
a black moon lilith
synchronicity and simplicity

the sun god has come to claim us
and we cannot escape the the mystery
of time’s insipid claws
i wonder how i will portray the dance of tomorrow
one beer
one song
one memory
i wonder how long i can keep this going?

361-sometimes-drunk-poems-are-the-best

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