under the influence, i simply adore watching the tongue-flower bloom.*

i know that i can be an obnoxious ****,
diva, madonna, blasphemer, **** -
a fury of words, bombast and slur -
and yet, my conscience is clean -
     i only remember the passing day
within waking hour of tomorrow
if i want to...
                    point being -
       when i am these things, i am drunk,
and by no omission of a coincidence -
but drinking smooths out the tongue,
liberates it - even with its pedantic desires
to ravish the genital aspect of language -
roughing it up, slurping up a *******'s
******...
                paying an extra £10 on top of
the £110 a hour and £10 entry fee to
the fat madame...
                                let's face it:
             mushrooms grow on ****...
                    no point holding back on
the vocab aphrodisiac -
                              rude, crude, lewd or
gnat-like-irritating,
                  i have a clean conscience,
because upon waking the next day,
itching disorientated buzzing -
i simply utter the words:
       what the **** happened last night?
my fear is that some people are all these
things and more, when they're actually
sober...
           me, i have the perfect excuse -
it's not drink driving,
              but it's certainly drinking in
some measure -
               writing just steadies the potion
into agreeable rations to expand the night;
sure, the mind turns numb,
   oyster like dead yet somehow alive...
but that doesn't stop the tongue from
   turbine rattling zephyr of a rattle-snake:
you can actually waggle your tongue with
your mouth closed faster side-to-side
than up-and-down...
           the oddest sensation when walking,
with the tongue emerging as the complete
limb abandonment -
                           the reverse feeling of
amputees, mouth closed with the tongue
waggling.