Slipping

The hardest part about writing whilst drunk
is keeping

everything

in

line.

Your mind begins to drift through fog.
Might be red,
white
her hair so brown
dark amber like the whisky that sits on the bar.
Time slips away
with gravity.
And the pen slides
down.
Her legs
The empty bottle slips to the floor and shatters like into
pieces of me.
Lost happiness drips on the side of the glass.
And the room
moves nearer and nearer

quicker

and to her

quicker.

Spinning into butter that seems to be helping my stomach climb.
Higher and higher he rises, until he knocks against my teeth and
SCREAMS.
"Let me out!"
He lets his children join the glass in a menagerie of sorrow and regret.
Beautiful when fractured.
In daylight not so needed.
Her poor judgment...or is it mine?
But the radio tells me love is all I need, and the walls echo the solitary.

So I sit, the intellectual, the poet, the lover, the loner, with a Fat Bastard Hippo,
and we share stories of what should be, what could be, what never was, and
what never will be.

The hardest part about writing whilst drunk is keeping everything in line.
And keeping your soul off the page.