My throat has that whiskey crawl about it
when the ice is forgotten
and all the oesophagus feels
is the firewater burn
of beakers, containers,
test tube shots,
glass receptacles
pouring flames on a drowning man
until that man is engorged
in his own wanderings
of crazed, empty curiosity
not a lust, but
that can't-help-but-wonder bewilderment
on the stained disco floor,
a sad, desperate volume
that liquid will not fill.

Hearts are not fluid
and into the vacuum of valves and arteries
the whiskey crawl comes
to rebound echoes of previous nights
into the place
where a familiar comfort once rested
on the coals of Sunday mornings
when hangovers did not matter:
they were laughed at even,
the warm, coarse laugh of the whiskey drinker
after feeding off a few.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...