Did Charles B smell of inky sweat
& stale booze – of rolled odours?
That oil from his skin? It could’ve
greased a ship’s slipway [or fried
a sly heart attack brunch for us]
…/
They’ll always revert to size-of-cock
[& what-they-would-do-if-this-that]
as alcohol’s numbing repeats such –
this week’s cache of ex-wife cracks
…/
Left off-shore by previous tides
& adrift behind a mask of cliffs –
redoubtable & other labels – as
if different [as if our differences
are good] …/
Six men sit – perching –
on suffering bar stools
Six etched chunks – an
almost-even arc offset
[nearly of Stonehenge] …/
Here – floatin’ – ish-whiffs
of desiccated weed on a
glass neck – of iffy-sniffs
of dope & somethin’s
…/
I yearn for a retreat
from my devices &
my vice of red-eyed
hours – do not wake
me – space spills in
…/
You almost kiss me
with that dry smile
made by my your mouth
and your half look
…/
I am getting drunk
with Seamus
He still rolls
his soot vowels out
from his distiller’s
mouth
…/
Half a waking aspirin
now taken down
and half a headache –
again – left to take –
but screw her –
with regret …/