Poem 42

my first and only alcoholic experience

Two swallows to raise my level
Just seconds to calm my nerves
The fear and anxiety of adventure
Iced the water on my sweating curves
They dance like banshees all around me
They offer me more poisoned sweets
Burning through my lips and tissue
No time to process, no time to cease
Spinning walls will import migraines
Jesters toast to health, defeat
Directionally lost in miasma
A victim of the bantering beasts
I am myself, I am myself
The harlots promise me my life
Unrecognized faces pressure
Linger closer, fill my breath
Reversing shots return as bile
A procession of the zombies comes
They tend to me in loving nurture
Bringing water. towels. myrrh.
Bath me in their whispered safety
While I drench myself in filth
I am myself I am myself
They must be sick; I can’t remember
Who they are or where I am
Am I myself—am I myself?
There must be foul play afoot
But the harlots promise safety,
the harlots flattened on the wall
There’s only noises, no more faces
Through my eyes a palate blur
Sounds come from within my body
Bursting lips for lack of words
Speaking quickly to each other
Hospital, water, bring more—quick
But they ignore me and the yelling…
Someone says I may be sick…
They-say-its-fine I’ve never seen them
The dancing animals fade away
But then the memory is gone—

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