if I wait at the bar
poised in an Irishman's
hands, but clothed
in sequence as a tool
I will raise up my pint
to the absurdity
and profundity of it all
as if swollen by circumstance
a weird ripple in time
loops around my face
like a thousand serpents
cloistered by God
I have worshiped the bottle
for to long, it seems
but I shape the future
with my eyeballs and ream
the clothing of this certain doom,
clings to me like plastic sheeting,
as purposeless and swollen
as a falling whale
but the sky is breeding whales
in blubber clouds
I am done with this foolish
cheese sandwich of doom!
Goodbye, world!
No comments:
Post a Comment