The woman singing
With the car radio
Knows half the words.

A customer grabs,
With a shirt-protected hand,
Goodwill's door handle.

The boy in the womb
Is already attending
DUI classes.

Why do we feel? How do I stop?

Why do we not take away the pain
But then those in pain cannot
And pain for purpose to warn
But what if the harm is only the pain itself
If what is bad is only that it hurts?
It wouldn’t matter that he doesn’t love me if it didn’t hurt
I don't know what love is anymore,
So I drink
Pretty alcoholism for the ache

Strength? Or masochism
Sacrifice? Or emptiness

Bruises on the bulbs of his hairy lymph nodes,
Lucid and bothersome as soiled clothes –
What could a Spanish fly have to share
With that grovelling man over there?
Both are shaken and stirred tonight,
Smouldering in narcotic amber light.

Order, order; his pulp reflection wants
****** thrown at his better half –
Drain the abscess, help it compress
In a savoury bubble bath.

An acned pixie nicks kitty-licks
From her 6-inch flute of wine,
Amidst drags of palo santo
For the sober mind.

Shivering like a slinky, both bygone toys.
Walking down stairs,
Alone or in pairs,
Tons of fun for girls and boys.

Everyone’s a caricature rendered queerly
To anyone under the influence; clearly,
I could be a peddler of all things here –
Waiting on my ultimate compassion, hear:

W.Y.B.M.A.D.I.I.T.Y?

Weeping man,  
all alone,  
reading text  
upon his phone.  

No eye contact,  
no face to face—  
her distant words  
lacking grace.  

Flowers dumped  
in public vase;  
intended ring  
reflects his face.  

He walks away  
to numb the pain,  
mixing bourbon  
and weak *******.  

To lap of love  
with plastic gold—  
a stranger’s flesh  
he needs to hold.  

Broken dreams,  
an empty bed;  
missing wallet,  
pounding head.  

Drunken walk,  
lacking grace,  
finding flowers  
in public vase.  

Weeping man,  
all alone,  
walks the street  
miles from home.  

By Darren Wall ©

45 degrees to the left on a two lane road
Would stop the screaming
Stomach no longer boiling in its own acid
Just drowning in black coffee and take out
Sweat no longer leaving a cartoon outline on the sheets
Just need a cool ring pressed against my palate
They said it would be cheaper
Coffee quickly out spends the rot gut
Staring through gleaming glasses
Rather than the amber round, looking up
Smiling and swirling around
A dancer in the dark
My own symphony
Playing for me, just me
As I shake shake shake
It was always either the DTs or the cold
A ***** soaked cocoon of the moth I am now
Not right
Never quite
Roll the dice
Let the monthly chips fall where they may
Collect like them a thousand purple hearted liver spots
Build a castle of coins
Circular towers, thrown stones in miller’s glass lighthouse
Addict yourself to getting better
Its the only way forward
Even when you are being pulled backwards

A cool autumn night.
A once bustling house, now silent.
The crack of the ice.
Warm light dancing in amber chaos.
Chaos turns to a shimmer.
Clinking slows. Stillness.
A new, anticipatory silence.
Patience.
Let it melt, just enough.
Now it's time.
Another clink breaks the silence.
The smell of oak.
The cold touch of ice.
The hedonic burn of aged grain and corn.
A gentle euphoria smoothes the edges of the world.
Contentment.

As the gramophone in the corner spins Stravinsky
i lie wake in a puddle of my own *****.
I can wash off the smell of pubs and whiskey
but can never run away from it.

As the devil drags me again by my hand
to the tear-stained paper at my old table,
i could tell you that I'm keeping my mouth dry
but you wouldn't believe this fable.

It'd be just not to trust it, there is reason, for
a man who had tried drinking away pain
is a man who'd succumbed to a bottle before
and a man who will do it again.

one eye so nearsighted that i can't see tomorrow/
the other so farsighted i can't see today.

As i am writing this i am drinking my poison cold,
counting on gray hair all the years that are gone

liquor and love are the poor man's gold
and a man's wealth - dying loving or dying loved.

I don't remember if it was happiness
or of thereof lack
but the jack in the box looks
now like a box of jack

this is that feeling I love
a buzz
like a happy vibration radiating through the skin
my face feels like I’ve been poked for a dentist appointment
my head is swirly and positive and I kind of feel like dancing or complimenting pretty girls on their smiles and their hair
when I close my eyes I feel high
a fulfilling swelling gulps my chest and I’m feeling giddy
oh what a world when suddenly everything feels fine again from a tall alcoholic beverage and a fine February day
it’s not that complicated really
This thing called life