Awakening in a disheveled body
Context — Some mornings are tough.
No swallows sang, nor jays, nor larks, that morn.
The length of summer drew an early gray.
All signs of hastened sleep on face, thread corn
wedged twice in grin. New creases. Disarray.
The mirror and the demons pitied none.
Why drink? You always fucking drink, you worm!
More often now when audience is one.
You claim that sundown lets the goblins loose,
the siren story pities you repeat.
You turn to words in lamplight, and to juice,
excuse that stupor’s aesthete’s Muse’s teat.
He churns himself like sausage, blithely mix
his virtues with the vices left unfixed.
You brilliant sack of shit, you should… you should…
reverberates atop, and masks the good.
You’re flawed for feeling liquor lights the way
last full-formed thought before the day’s malaise.
How easy is your love for others deep
yet view of self as wolf, in clothing sheep.