don’t work no more.

need some kind of distraction.

**** it, might as well try writing

bad poetry.

Je me surprenais à songer aux saveurs de l'âme
Chaque moment où j'avais le corps endolori
Je me soumettais aux tentations les plus profondes, ces flammes
C'est dans la combustion que j'ai pu savourer la vie

Je me souvenais des oublis volontaires de mes récits
Chaque peine est l'origine d'une poésie
J'évite la littérature de mes inquiétudes
C'est dans l'oubli que j'ai conforté ma solitude

there was never a time I wasn’t faking it
sipping on lies like wine and always wanting more
I can’t remember not being thirsty

with liquor, my words run rampant
they slip from my tongue so easily and dance in the streets
they’re willing to burn down cities
they’re willing to cut throats
they’re willing to ruin anything good
another reason I stopped drinking-- I can’t keep feeding myself frenzies

Fahr an’ Ice
by Michael R. Burch

(apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash)

From what I know of death, I’ll side with those
who’d like to have a say in how it goes:
just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker),
and real fahr off, instead of quicker.

Originally published by Light Quarterly

Keywords/Tags: Robert Frost, Ogden Nash, death, fire, ice, liquor, quicker, humor, nonsense, light verse, parody, satire

The way the chilled glass sits and liquid pours-
Soulful singing soothes the mind-
No wonder they go back to the liquor-
If I follow the tracks they lay- would I too
Find shelter in bubbles, therapy in fermented steam-
I might need a vice but no-

Such a classy act to chug from tap upside down-
Illegal now but legal Now-
To trick the brain into a floating void-
Oh how wonderful but-
For some reason I fear putting drink to lips
The burning down my throat.
So- in soulful bar, the glass sits on its rim
Await till I fall thin.
Till the day I crumble it sits.

Wake up, head pounding,
throat on fire; the air's too bright.
Check where you are,
check what is on you
--clothing or otherwise--
hands croak for water, trembling weakly;
bottles of liquor, open at random;
pick your way through
the jungle of clothing;
single shoes scattered.
A book, earmarked maybe, from another life.

If the opportunity arose
I’d jump at the chance.
I’d sell my soul to liquor
And consider it
A very good deal