this last sip of the newest bottle is truely
magic. i know nothing
nothing of the waves that pass
the tides are
as far from me
as the moon

this type of poesy is
vomit.

i often puke against
the last page of the night, it’s the easiest whore, the last one left against the lonely wood perch of
the disgusting barstool
we
share the desperate love
of the last sinking note of the ale, the lager, the
pilsner
we write the same hope of darkness reprieve
we sink the same tumbler

i do not pray to rise above.

she is the we
of ultimate
consumption

as the gold foil
of my last bottle
falls prey to
my hunger

she will make the same plan;

latch on to
another consumer

anxious to grant
libation
to the hunger
of desperate thirst
that knows no
relent…