Tag Archives: drunk

Fire

We do so many things collectively

and have too much in common

to always get along.

Only testing the temperature of the water

with the parts of ourselves

that are the furthest away,

the end bits,

toes and fingers,

the most commonly lost

in work-week accidents

and engine repair holidays.

So we drink to finish ourselves off,

claiming the day is done,

the lights are almost out

and the spark that once lived like a flame

is now ready

to become darkness.

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This Place’s Face

This room’s collecting it’s drinkers
from the torn-out streets
still covered with a new season.
And as the flow
of personal reasons
keeps them walking through the door,
this place
becomes the face
they remember most.

This place
keeps glasses full
and eyes wet
as the ample gets
the things they get
when speaking in slurs
of emotions that blur
into something double sided
that seems clear to some
but beautiful to none
when they feed off the things
that break their hopes
where the illusion is
that it helps them cope
with the drops that fill a glass
to the point
where people pass judgements
like a jar
collecting objections.
And as relatives become relations
words become guarded by quotations,
like hopeful eyes
on a frowning face
that never takes anything less
than what it wants.

In this place
it’s the feeling of kneeling
when you’re standing
and we’re keeping our hands open
just to let things bleed
so those seeds don’t dry out
when they shake our hands without a grip
and like sips to the thirsty
we know there’s more required.
And this place
surrounds them
with those out looking
for a good, or better time.
Those souls who do the same
but have yet to cross that line.
In this place it’s safe to die
because no one’s looking them in the eye
for that kind of kindness
that could help them rely on themselves.

But this place
keeps people at a distance
when trying to see a stranger naked
is just opening up to that honesty
and looking at those things
that’re too hard to see
in the endless depths of ourselves,
where this place
greases the wheels of disgrace
and our voices
contradict our choices
while those who’ve sunk
are now watching us all make
all the same mistakes.
As time ignores their dreams
their hands now reach
into their pockets for them
just to hide those shakes
that break the glasses
they cant hold anymore
and as hidden tears
crash down to the floor
they try to tell you their names
through winter-chapped lips
and whispers of shame.

In this place’s race,
I’ve never gained on anyone
that was ahead of me.
I’ve only watched
through fascist eyes
and the diluted end
of an addicted bloodline
where parents parted the direction of belief
but those new waves
still come back to say
those things they should have forgotten.
And I see these people become
the things they could have been
where the brighter side
sometimes makes no case
for the kind of race
that only one can win.