I burn my city away on cheap nights,
eight glasses wasted on a dry throat.
The sound of boots squishing raw soil
set a course of sirens through my rotting
ears, jerking my dilated pupils
into the boiling sun, crying in the
presence of my son,
yet there I am,
seated among thinly threaded confessions,
surrounded by faces reminding me of headaches
on Monday mornings.
I can smell their toasted hair under my gaze,
when they say, "quitting is taking back your life,"
yet I could pay for a Friday bar
night with a bald boy,
suffocating under the weight
of a cold rib-cage,
until I screamed at them to pull the plug.
Sort of a fictional story in poetic form about alcoholism and other things.