1731: Openings

I am sure – Jack Daniel’s
never used to have this
moulded wrap [tough to
peel – do blunt drunkards
cope?] – my biting knife
splits its throat – Ripper
Jack’s wrist in my hand
as nip-pours of whiskey
connect in me – fusing –
by my sips & swallows/

She spoke – talked – how
do I tell you how it went?
She blew honey flavours
over my bourbon spikes –
she offered me her drug –
without a fumbled sleep
of interruptions – just my
too-keen talk – I chat too
much – it is my downfall/
My tip-empty glass sits –
waiting on her confect of
words to sweeten my sip

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