I know this night, I know its call. Agony wears a harpy's grin to tempt the lungs to drown within. The bedfellow of cortisol; this life raft needs prescription scrawl before we're buried in its skin. I know this night. A panic button protocol shotgunned with cheap raspberry gin. Hope: the very first deadly sin that chokes us all against the wall I know this night.
Lift me up if I fall drunk on life's alcohol. I stumble, maybe trip, mentally lose my grip. Happy smile; blinding grin between fast sips of gin. Swallowed whole; empty cup. Love, my life: Lift me up.
Am I to be poured of cold glass and dance with death in soft pink gin? We'll spin upon a tailor's pin wearing the tarnish of brass. Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass, I tread both lines in mortal skin. Am I to be poured of smashed glass and dance soft with death in pink gin? Reaper smiles sickeningly crass rapping bone on pondering chin with a heavy sigh of chagrin. This moment of visit must pass. I am poured out of cold smashed glass while death dances soft in pink gin.
Chipped polish on keratin Formed instruments of misery Against the carved ivory candlestick, But played in time and one half Between clicked wooden heels And shuffle scuffed leather toes. Shrieking warped wood boards Bemoaned the restless pacing Until eased by the storm’s drippings Rolled from the oversaturated linen. Youth kept the nightdress white, Precisely creased on double pleat Perfumed in almond and rice starch. The insipidness of immaturity Creeped up the ironed dart lines To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil, And seeped into the recurring path In a bogged mix of clay and blood. The sludge had smudged the vows Between the ruby and diamond ring. Lightning had taken exception, Or so it would have seemed, To the metal cockerel above the well. It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat Encased, leather, side button boot. He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once, Yet adorned himself so pretentiously For the eyes of the unwed maidens On the night he was intended to wed. The dusty manor house windows Did not hide the ostentatious footwear From the overwhelmed on looker As she bit her nails cuticle bare. Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep For the drunkard had overindulged On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin. But he cracked his crown on limestone Before his legs lost the ability to hold His brainless form to full attention. Inebriation settled most heavily In the bones of his shaking wheeze. Had not the split of his mindless skull Incapacitated his conscious movement, His well wished departure would be, To the greatest of detest and chagrin, Replaced by opiate coma numbing As his bride rode Peeler’s prize In a carted cage of lucid lunacy And cursed language of wicked folk. Luck had been her bedfellow, Strength her mightiest gift giver, And determination: her kind muse. No sooner could he groan in ache Than his moaning was quick silenced In the crunch of crumbled spine That met with a barren dark age well. Her hand warmed by the liquid wax, She stopped pacing to reflect with joy At the sickening sound of lifelessness.
This margarita Drank at a dozen a dime, Uses island lime
All the far places That the heart wishes to be Come with a price tag
I stood on a boat On an ocean oh so blue, Missing only you
I long for a break, End the mundane daily grind Just for a moment
We got plastered on the mezzanine. Giving even less shits than before With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene Splitting prescription amphetamine Into servings of six, eight or four, We got plastered on the mezzanine. Supplementing lacking dopamine Pretending we wanted to feel more With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene On the childlike side of something-teen With store rooms of baggage to ignore We got plastered on the mezzanine. Steadily making more of a scene Baiting ourselves to even the score With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene These moments dipped light in sertraline Revisited in flashbacks galore We got plastered on the mezzanine. With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene
A crystalized lowball glass sways; Jigging the rocks around the whiskey. Holding the glass is an aged hand, Belonging to an aged man Just threatening to tell a story. The bar listens with tense ears And choked breaths. "She was my first wife; June, beautiful, bewitching, bodacious; Too much so at times. She wore her hair pinned At the crook of her neck With a single silver barrette. It softened her harsh features Just a little you see. I came home one day To discover her on the floor, Deceased, With a single silver barrette Plunged deep in her eye socket. But nobody knew a damned thing!" The lowball swayed mores And the tavern slouches listened on. "Next there was my second wife, Anna-Marie. She was a pious woman, And her slight figure would pray Before performing any activity And i mean any, before the Lord. She tied the waist of her dress With a bright green ribbon; it was so tiny that waist of hers. Shame I found the ribbon Around that pretty porcelain neck. And for some reason, Everyone thought nothing of it!" The lowball was empty. Once the bartender topped it up The man continued. "Finally there is my beloved Jessie. Far too pretty and young Especially for this old ruffian, But she would ignite the fire To warm any man's soul. Now she's still alive. But that there stiff That got my gun going He's the bastard Snatched her from me. And with God as my witness, She remains my wife, So she belongs to me." And with one long final sip, He left the bar without his gun; High off of gunpowder and whiskey.
I had spent many hours with her, Both young and grown. I had grown beside her kin, With a mother who shared her blood. She was reckless in my mother’s eyes, Wild as the wind that she flew on. A woman who lived by no law, But by principle of her own heart. She near always smiled at me, And she laughed at my cynicisms. We drank several nights away, At the bar, or on the step of a shop door. Like many young, I fled the nest, Spread my wings for lands afar, Leaving them all behind me, But visiting with growing infrequency. On my return there would be happy reunion, Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs. Gatherings of the now grown and their young, Besides our elders now older once more. But time did fly by quicker, And 15 months seems to blink fast. And soon I am beckoned back, Returning to see her again. My mother, as always, Holding the hands of my family, As a means to hold their souls, their bodies, And their strength, in an upwards fashion. Me, smiling through, as taught, Showing that the living are not afraid. I hold her hair 'twix my fingers, And braid in flowers as we laugh. I roll her smokes, before my own, The legality of them questionable, As she waves between here and there, Jittery with fear of being wedded. I paint over the hollowing skin, Lighten her sunken eyes, With a mixture of tones, pigments, Creams and powders, brushes and sponges. The clocks strikes and the camera clicks, She grins as she is wheeled along, I press the button as she makes vows, Promises to be short lived and kept. We drank, we smoked, we laughed, I sang, for she couldn’t any longer, I walked for her, towing the chair, And navigated with care and fear. Family gathered, united, strong again, Smiling at the simple pictures I captured, Wondering at the beauty of her, Of her soul, of her love. The woman wore purple, As a bride, draped in purple and white, As a mother, through waking night, As my aunt, when hugging me tight. The woman wore purple, And when I saw her last, she wore it still. Though I’ll never see her again, I know the woman wears purple.
Goodbye bottle number one, You were not full enough, My glass sat half empty, My mind still half full. Bottle one, you were sweet, You were smooth. A hint of cinnamon, A calmed anger, A giggly outlook, For a moment. Well hello bottle number two, And bottle three. Bottle two not even half full, Bottle three not barely touched. Let's share stories, Laugh, cry, shout, scream. I don't like your flavour Bottle three, But bottle two is lacking. Which mixer now? Eenie, meenie - this, that, Why choose, I'll swap, I'll change it up, That bottle isn't important, Two and three are! I might sleep tonight, Or I might wake up Over and over, Just like last night. Can I spend every night here? Numb enough to smile, Broken enough to cry.
Glass in hand, Tongue in mouth, A poor excuse for an escape. Glass in hand, Liquor in mouth, One fine way to drown it out. Glass in hand, Mind still thinks, Maybe a bit faster will help. Glass in hand, Eyes glaze out, More is needed to settle. Glass in hand, Thoughts command, Just swallow pride before this one.
Glass on lip, Eyes closed, One more breath to swallow. Glass on deck, Another in mind, Perhaps the thought will stop. Glass on lip, Liquor tips, The heart begins to race Glass on deck, Burning neck, Just one more to ease the pain. Glass on lip, Feelings split. It's time. To have another.
The Poet Armistead 