Bullhorn Sunlight

fun times

 

I’m going to need a razor to scrape the Turkish Silver scum and
Stag silt off of my brown, wagging tongue.
The bullhorn sunlight wasn’t awfully kind this morning;
Crowbar to my eye-lids, pasted together with whiskey epoxy.
I’m ‘sposed to take responsibility for what I might have
said, done, broken, violated, or urinated on last night.
Remembrance is thornier than treating a hangover.

I.                    

Some sick tail-gate to further depravity.
Dog meat tacos settle the stomach but pool the lips with oil.
Be wary of lighting a cigarette. You might encounter a grease fire.
Like Jack ought to stay in the box; I can only hope that
the eventual toxic mess stays in my gut.  
A celebration of life shouldn’t end in a spew of vomit.

II.                 

You know that word that rhymes with what football teams
Opt to do when facing a fourth down?
Well it embodied the hostess of the first saturnalia.
But I can’t blame her for her poor bearing,
Considering my penchant for Goldilock’s routine
tactlessly applied to beverage consumption.

III.              

Off to Kristen’s. Some repossessed murder hovel.
It’s a place to sleep, I’ll give you that.
There might be a gas leak; maybe a strange amount of methane
rising from the sordid cat box. Ignorable after several more swigs.
Brown out, black out, lobotomized drunk.
I rumple onto a couch, in wait for the bullhorn sunlight

 

Reviews

[Gandré]

I liked your style, and I liked your poem. Spicked with fresh images, this is art. the best poem i wrote today on WC, the most convincing thing for me is when I can see that poet writes from his experience, not from the position of a passive observer. intense writing. regards, lara gandr�