Ode to D. Thomas
Gutter: a place of fallen solitude in the darkest hour
A drink or two, or three, or enough to get through ‘til morning
Irish Coffee to forget that friends fuss over drinks and poems. Who’s kiddin’ who as the
A march that ended with Sousa choking on his vomit from the gin and tonic played on from a record player in the 6th Ave. apartment.
Sunrise will rise and the wordsmith will forget that his feelings matter no more to her than a moon that has sunk in the sky too soon on a morning made to ruin drowning souls.
Waddle through the door, trip on the cobblestones. Poets die too young of broken hearts and broken glasses in a Greenwich Village Bar.
The white horse came riding that night after he drank a drink of marathon drinks. He was going for the record. A competitor of words and the muse behind those words. A scotch brewed in Wales by a woman that he caroused in a horse carrol on his mother’s family farm.
Scent of death lingered in the air. Words that perpetuated the lips of a dying man’s conundrum. Drink more to write more. Drink and be merry. Drink to live. Drink to die.
Drank to remember the memories he once lived. Drunk to forget the lives in his memory.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home