i love being the drunk, you wonder less about the pre-ready
lexicon of: the sobering thought.
i have that, the sober thought,
makes being drunk a little bit more sentimental;
and when a sobering thought comes
along i tango with it, less blurry cross-eyed
loosing my inhibitions of finding work
in the eyes of others for the manually skilled
to let tree be a tree and stone a stone,
un-differentiating a plumber from a mechanic
as a shadow of a tree’s branch at night under a street’s electric bogus -
for the river of heraclitus’ paraffin oozed sesame
with aladdin: to compass north for me
and consider animation outside of acting likewise frowned and believed.
we took acting as ******* and canned laughter as amphetamines
to equip us to loot utopia with our populace and say: cambozola. only that?
i smiled prettier dead in victorian hopes for a quick one-two resurrection off the photograph,
because it was a dross dribble of skill on the pitch that
made me the ideal counter to feminism... a lazing lion in the house sometimes vacuuming.