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Don’t pussy foot around

September 7, 2012

Seems like I’m back to a routine that works for me.  Late night composition, late night posting, dealing with the consequences in the morning.  No matter.

This poem is about drinking. Not social drinking but the need to drink. Then finding somewhere, at some point the need to stop. I like to think that I’m getting better in the sense that twenty years ago it would be many pints of beer. Ten years ago it would be a bottle of whisky. Now it is wine. Well, I console myself that where I’m at now is an improvement!

Don’t pussy foot around 

It would not be impossible
for me to drink a bottle of wine.
Not to sip gracefully from a glass
appreciating bouquet and flavour
but to tear the foil
and hold the bottle in
my fist
and drink
glug and gulp
putting the pints away
draining the bottle.
Shouting in the face of Dionysus
an unarguable
with alcoholic oblivion.This is what I need
I want
to drink and drink again
gut sickness
is the only notice of surfeit.
When pulling away
is my only acceptance of strenght.

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