She was whiskey brown death
Old No. 7 green label
Poem maker, poem taker
Poet savior, poet pest
Fire-water liquid esophageal flashover
Her warm amber flame
Volatile, capricious
I slept in her burn many times with words
drowned drunken sexed & sloppy
Mortified,
Mornings would sometimes find us
Mixmashed,
I
the few drips in her bottle
and she
the one splayed burnt blood on my bed
She’s forgotten flames now
I wonder where she burns
Whose tongue now wakes
sodden ash
muddy words.
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| unknown original source |
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