Requiem for a Heavy Drinker
and while my liver’s smokin’ on like a crimson-roast-chicken out of the oven, I light a cigarette with its fire and everything’s fine
cause all the heavy-drinkers are shot-in-the-dark-poets right out of the blue
will o’ the wisp bottle-head
sleeping it off for years ‘til the clinic-shrinks-valium _ making myself a scorched king drowning & rising through ashes over and over ... the kid with a bottle in his hand like a warm gun (sweet liquor pretty gun) - that’s how it goes that’s how it goes
wolen face - bloated face enjoying the stroke of the wind for a new day after all those nights of organized liquid funerals
and those fights, my girl’s tears, my own fresh blood, and the bottles we broke to screw the night ...
the beauty of the day after ‘cause I’m born
well I’m born
we are born each day
(they’ll never understand . how badly we’re alive)
and while my liver’s smokin’ on like a crimson-roast-chicken out of the oven, I light a cigarette with its fire and everything’s fine - ‘cause all the heavy-drinkers are shot-in-the-dark-poets right out of the blue
all the heavy-drinkers are
shot-in-the-dark-poets
right out of the blue
Illustration for Tom BURON's poem
