Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

a drunk


Fall through

My guts

And battle to break me

Beat my bones into

Shapes that I dread.

My great grandpa

Shotgun blasted

A hole in the middle of my chest

Before it was possible

For me to be dead.

Even in dreams I

get muddled

by ghosts

of memories I know

that I haven’t had,

yet, slipping.

A thousand dead drunks

Not bacchanalian or godly

In any sense

All grab at my ankles.

Sad specters in sepulchers, brains

Wet, dripping

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