You bury your anger in words, like open coffins unready for entombment.
You haven’t yet healed from your mother’s hurting.
You numb your pain in firewater and feel like a patient after having undergone open heart surgery.
You haven’t yet healed from your ex-wife’s hurting.
I can hear your Pride belt out: “I am the,
Binger of booze,
Hunter for hooch,
Swallower of sauce,
Picker of poison,
Madder for moonshine,
Swinger of shooters,
Bud of suds,
Nipples and tipple,
Champion of champers”.
Juiced-up,
you leave the bar with a handsomely masked whore.
Snow-coned, sloshed, steamed and skunked, you use her body, but think it’s me.
Black Cat Words 