"antiseptic" poems
Cold mornings but yet i dont feel it...
Cold blooded soul
Got a heart with a hole....
No sealent...
30 and below
i wont start to show...
Black ice on the ground tell me you can see it...
Tropic antiseptic...
rubbed across my skin...
novacane injected...
followed by a pin...
No pain, just frost bitten..
with no mittens...
ground across my belly..
Eat the fruit I know your hungry...
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 12:03 PM UTC
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the ******
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
7.3k
There's a sister who floats with hungry collarbones and a razor-edged smile. She smokes sadness when she isn't ready to exhale.
She is beauty in fine art and wrath the colour of thunderstorms; the rain comes when she smiles.
Holier than thou and quick to judge, with antiseptic perception known to bring out the things you were not aware existed.
Addictive, those imprints from her feet will stamp all over you; nimble fingers puppeteering those who fall out of her thoughts.
She is selfish and always leaves, leaves, leaves. She ran away at the first tremor; she did not stay to watch the concrete crumble.
But she picked me up when the concrete friction broke my knees, lashed tyrants with her tongue and prowled behind the boyfriends that came and always went.
This sister whom I project; the image of her I mirror. She is love and laughter and moods that taper and flare.
She is a cluster of persons, a bomb liable to a detonate on a short fuse. She is trouble ailing in the best possible way; her flames light up the shade.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I have faith in medical science
But little in practice.
Straight spined doctors
Racing stopwatches against
Their appointment books.
Extolling the virtues of thousands of years of medical research
But unable to consider anyone's opinion other than their own.
Kindly, soft-voiced nurses shuffling from
Room to room
Doling out condolences and reassurances
Paired with regimens
Of drugs and IVs.
While Old Time in the ticking clock
Slows
To a dead crawl.
And the noise of heartbeats on machines
And discussions out in the hall
And loved ones distracting and pacifying patients in beds
Layer on top of one another to form a firm blanket of
Crushing. Boredom.
And the antiseptic smell does nothing to ease
The passing of time spent waiting
While the medical machine spins its wheels
To the chime of slot machines.
And the bustling rush outside a curtain
On hard white floors,
Does less than lend a sense a peace
But more of frantic urgency.
Minute long - task oriented visits
Where they know names, numbers, and insurance coverage
And they know how many steps it takes for them
To lend more of their valuable time
In that modern balance of cost and care.
Leaving me wondering,
Where did the connection go?
I wonder where peoples' trust went
And when it was replaced with,
"How much will this cost me?"
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
i was reborn, like a phoenix
but without all the glory.
i didn't set the hospital on fire; i struggled
to pull myself from the ashes
of a former prodigy,
one entwined with madness
in all the right ways
laced with misery like a noir heroine,
so sexily depressing-
whereas now i am just empty
i did not emerge unscathed, no,
not like the fledgling, i
am covered in scars and faultlines from where
the sorrow tried rip itself
from my sorry body
and the crimson glue holding me together
replenishes itself more diluted each time
before i died
i swung through technicolor
episodes of scarlet, rose,
ecstatic white, and the
sapphire blue to haunt my dreams
waking and at night
but the color leached away,
the antiseptic began to pervade, refilled my veins
and purged me of everything but grey.
before my death,
i reigned over the darkness, banished it
when it did not suit me,
manipulated reason, lived in a waking dreamland,
in complete control of my life-
but now, when i am fragile as eggshell,
it's the only place i can hide,
a haven where i can act like the lack of light
masks an imagined vivacity and not a skeleton in flat black and white,
disguises and emboldens me,
allows me to be whole again,
to forget the borders, my limitations
indiscernable in dusk
i used to cast my own light-
now i am my own shadow
and in the dark i fumble for
what i used to be,
reconnect myself with the world
throw myself from the cliff
and hope to find my wings again
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle
Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.
And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.
And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,
Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly
Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was
Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,
When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,
And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,
And the screaming.
Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
It's our time
*The sublime
Rhyme and reason
We season this reality with words instead of thyme:
Both are medicinal
Antiseptic chemicals to keep away the grime*
Don't tell me any different
Bare witness to the gift of bliss that is expression
Words can increase life expectancy in the midst of depression
They can get back at those who hurt you without using a weapon
Or refresh your mental image when you're feeling less than
They form legacies and dedications
Eulogies and congratulations
They give everything in existence an identity
Even the most ****** obscenities
Words are life and words are love
Words even form this silly cheesy stuff
**To everyone feeling poetic, I have but one question
What's one way, while writing, your life has been blessed in?**
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne
the length of legs, the depth of eyes
more medical trips and taxicab drives
blood tests, x-rays, candy bars from vending machines
visitors in lab coats
questions
touches
from cold metal, cold skin
antiseptic aromas
waiting in cold rooms, in backless hospital gowns
a flash of skin from the hot patient
next to me, an inviting smile
a ***** of crotches
a wheelchair comes
to take me
away
Dec., 2002
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
As I concentrate on the X on the ceiling
I feel the burning pain travel
O this enduring feeling
Farther I travel into subconscious
My mind barely still reeling
The needle drags past skin
Past regret, past nerve endings
Body, patiently waiting for the healing to begin
O three pronged needle of shades
Dripping into blood stream
Trapping yourself between layers of
Epidermis, leaving your mark unclean
I try to find my tranquil place
A quiet forest, a a glaciers gleam
Yet my mind shouts and doth protest
This is your finest moment
Do not hide from it
Endure the present
At that moment the machine strikes my chest
I am here focusing on the X
The buzz becomes a lullaby
But do not fall into the minds eye
Living in the present
The girl watching see's the blood rise
A color I cannot see from my perspective
I smile with clenched teeth
To show I will not accept demise
O perseverance you have prevailed
The needle lifts, antiseptic applied
The tingle of chemical purity relaxes my skin
I try to stand but my head is a blur '
Legs lack equilibrium for a moment
I am reborn, like a religious experience
People of faith describe
I am new
I am proud
I am high.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
i was born in a ghost hospital
a pile of stones and then a blank slate
with new antiseptic rooms
invisible blood-stained linoleum
and the sound of rubber tennis shoe soles
replacing the place where
i was born with dying stars in my eyes
and supernovae bursting with the
last of their fiery energy before they
blink out of existence
like the hospital where i was born
am i now to be a woman
without true north
a single brick from the single place
where i respired freely and
crisp breaths of truth passed
like whispers over my wordless lips
before the oozing obsidian night
slowly crept up and
wrapped itself around me like
a flea infested blanket
and the blinding white light
of a growing chain reaction
a deafening ring in my ears
nothing
then slow realization that
i'm still alive
battered by beta particles
attacked by alphas
and i'm alone in the nuclear winter
to trek towards my kaaba
the only piece of
where i came into the world
and was the baby girl that
my parents cradled in their
awkward hesitant arms
the little angel my father thought
would certainly break
into a million pieces by the slightest breath of wind
and scatter to heaven
for where else should such innocence be?
i yearn for that brick
from my hospital
because its foundation was built
on something apart
from eating disorders
bipolar disorder
suicide attempts
neat lines of cuts in various stages of healing
when i hold that stone in my hand
residual sand from the
demolition site crumbling
as i turn the cement over
and over
its warmth and weight so real in my hand
that i can see a dim light in a window
a glowing blonde kissing
her black haired beau
and the baby in her arms
theirs
even just for that night.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
Today I extended a hand to fate
To see which door it would pull me through,
And it chose the one I was afraid of.
Today I put the universe to test
Since challenging authority is always best,
And it pulled me along for the ride.
Today I stood on railroad tracks
Because I wondered if I was invincible
And I wasn’t.
Today I sliced myself open
For I’d forgotten the pattern of my soul’s veins
And I remembered.
So I closed my eyes and bit my lip
And jumped right off that breaking ship
And into waves of foamy spray,
Which tended to my bleeding way,
The held me and caressed me so,
And whispered of the things they know
They carried me to sandy banks
And left me dreaming, giving thanks.
I awoke in a pool of scarlet,
feeling the wretched tendrils
of darker, greener enemies
working their way in while I slept.
I awoke in a pool of scarlet,
Knowing what I had to do
And applied antiseptic,
But no anesthetic.
I awoke,
Knowing why fate chose this door,
Knowing where the universe had taken me,
Knowing that though broken, I’d survived,
Knowing what it was to be me.
Knowing not to let the poison in
And not to let the shadows win.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
eating breakfast
on a beaten girl's face
she ignites when you take it
she glows in her faith
with gold and blue phalange atop sleekest new marrow
she is clear raincoats and black body polish
she is siamese cats asleep on a windowsill
she is the rusted remains where the ices draw narrow
she is reading rimbaud and drowning brian jones
the swan's neck upper reach
is steady with guilt
engraved with your initials
a monogrammed friese
on white marble quilt
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Now:
The EMTs respond.
A Jane Doe is found dead.
Beneath the I-90 overpass.
They lift her
Zip her into a bag,
And transport her to the morgue.
They can’t feel sad.
Today:
The few wispy strands of hair that remain
Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head
Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips
betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition
Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within.
Her eyes dim as her body putrifies.
Last Week:
Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence
A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and
Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted
She would be less wet and cold.
For a night.
They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup.
The rats eat most of it.
She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway.
Last Month:
The shelter is scary and dangerous.
She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’.
The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM.
She finds a spot between two dumpsters.
It reeks of **** but is unoccupied.
Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads.
The crime is unreported.
Last Year:
The fluorescent lights sting her eyes.
The antiseptic smell burns her nose.
The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented.
She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps.
A painful jab in her arm and then nothing.
Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze.
Kindly eyes greet her.
They stay with her.
They accompany her to the shelter.
They tell her to come back for follow-on care.
She never sees them again.
Before:
The divorce rips her heart in two.
She has nothing.
She is nothing.
Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it.
Where would she go?
What would she do?
Everything has become so wrong.
Once Upon a Time:
She was happy. Joyful.
Filled with life and hope.
He was smart, funny, successful.
Together they were magical.
Perfect.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Your heart is the same shape and size
as a fist
But don’t use it like one
because hearts
they aren’t metaphors like a fist
they cannot be healed with stitches and a band-aid
The ability to touch does not mean the ability to feel
and waiting for your heart to heal
it’s a hell of a lot more than antiseptic
My fury for you
I threw some punches
I tried to break open that prison that holds your heart captive
but I guess my voice just wasn’t the right frequency because it’s still in tact
and yes,
when the world went quiet for a moment
I could hear the gears of the universe turning inside of you and I loved the sound of it
but that’s my fault
You told me I was too young and I don’t see the way that the real world works
and that’s because I view the world in metaphors but life
is not poetry
I knew the woman at the beauty supply store had never had her heart broken
when she kicked me out of the hair isle for slathering shampoo on my chest
because I was hoping the suds would seep in through my skin and
find their way to my heart
The label on the bottle read anti-breakage
I just couldn’t resist to try
The librarian was confused when I returned the dictionary that smelled like peroxide and was covered in band-aids
Maybe she had never been hurt by words or maybe
life is not poetry
I told you that kissing you was like waking up right before seeing the sun rise
after the apocalypse
You didn’t understand
I told you that I wanted to string the stars from your bedroom ceiling so you would always have something to count on and again you didn’t understand
I told you my heart was a quilt of mixed-matched fabric with flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions
You still didn’t understand even though our internal wounds are stitched up using the same thread
Because life is not poetry
Life is real and I am so **** good at letting people love me
it scared me to see my joy sitting in your hands
slipping through the creases of your fingers like sand
I stopped saying your name when it started sounding real to me
So I guess this is how it ends
With the realization that I could shatter and leave my broken pieces under your pillow
and you still would not dream of me
So don’t
use your heart like a fist
because life is not poetry
I am not a metaphor
I’m not a phrase
an expression or an exclamation
I’m not a simile and I’m certainly not a hyperbole
But I’d rather have ink on my hands than blood
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
I was silent for a long time.
Sotto voice of an inner monologue
when the room was barren.
Ambiance, antiseptic smells,
plastic and cold metal,
yet I felt diseased.
A viral infection
tended to by women in scrubs.
Too-bright lights
dilated my pupils,
and illuminated the evidence
of my actions,
the acts
that brought me there.
They all asked:
What happened?
*It was cold and burning and
all I could see was red.*
What did you do?
I let go.
My heart fluttered
to the throb of my skull
like it might take flight
or explode.
I was fine with either.
Somehow,
I am awake.
And the nightmares
are worse.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Antiseptic operational sheen
You made the break clean
Blood never touched your hands
So none could soak your conscious
You handled it plain faced
She trusted you on the operation table
She was patient & she was yours
When it was done,
You reaped the rewards
Although a clean break can be sterile
Her healing went all wrong
She went home, pale & cold
Still fuzzy from the medication
Bled herself dry on the kitchen table
Then later on, again, then again
Your cut was straight
But you couldn’t anticipate
That she could feel your infection
The infection of rejection
In which always stains the blade
Her heart would never be the same
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
Emptied out the suitcase of my thoughts
I'm kinda tired of lugging them around
Searching for a place to just feel sore
Without some ******* telling me
To flip my smile around
If I could? Don't you think I would?
If I could just blank out the bullcrap of today
If I could? You bet I would.
Funnily ******* enough, things don't quite work that way.
Wiping away the scratchmarks of the day
With the antiseptic wipe of yet another pill
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
the bath soap scent from my childhood.
the one my mother
would bring home every sunday;
for me to wash but never feel clean.
it stings,
but no longer seeps into cuts like antiseptic.
it smells like sorrow,
loneliness, and pain
yet the scent on my skin doesn’t make me sad.
i think of the girl and what the girl would think of me.
how far we’ve come;
and how we share the same scent on older skin.
Aug 18, 2024
Aug 18, 2024 at 10:37 AM UTC
Ripped open, bleeding the stardust of the heavens.
You were the comet, bright and brillant blue, coming to stitch up my wounds.
I was saved, not with antiseptic or morphine but the healing rush of your lips.
Electricity pulses from your tongue brought me back to life.
I found Orion’s Belt, you were my North Star.
Super novas collapsed in my lungs when I looked into your moon filled eyes.
I was the waves, under your spell I couldn’t fight the tide.
When you held my hand and said forever Haley’s Comet burst forth from my limbs and
I became a red blossomed nebula.
Yours, infinitely.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
Why do you continue to sleep this night?
Like so many others, refusing to awaken
I am losing patience with your lack of knowing
With your avoidance to feel
Hear me ... Come to me
Come back to the fore mother's womb
Know your place of origin
It is time for you to be born again of blood and lust
Time to drink deep and be nourished by Ancestral *******
I come to you in the quietness of the night
I come to you with arms that ache to hold you
With a tongue that burns to share with you
All that has been denied you for too long
*What is happening to me?
I did as I was told. I followed the formula.
Studied well. Worked hard. Fell in love..
.
Why was it all taken from me? What is left for me?*
Doing and not “Being” leaves no time for the sacred
You wonder why the emptiness grows inside you?
Let me love you into growing and into knowing
The truth of the fullness of a woman
Time to leave your antiseptic cocoon
Time to touch, to burn, to feel
Time to leave the shackles of other's man made rules
And dare to create your own from having lived
So many fear the dark.
But water and fire gather in the dark places below.
The brave and bold have learned to go there eagerly
They run with pulses racing.
Their bodies flushed, warm, alive.
Hear me ... Come to me
Tonight we shall meet and touch
It is our intention to reclaim all that has been lost to us
It is our intention to give to you, all that has been denied
Dare to free your body.
Dare to open your soul.
Feel.
Hear me ... Come to me
Let me dig deep into your soul
Become one with your Ivory bones
Know the harmony of your blood's song
Find the place where I belong
Let my footsteps echo within your mind
Journey with me through space and time
Let me turn you inside out
Breathe the Breath from your sweet mouth
A pulse stilled...now throbs and rushes
A tongue denied...salivates
A covert glance...seeks to be engaged
Flesh and mind flooded with new yearning...are hungry
Woman of the heart, Let thunder roll
Dig in your earthiness,
Follow your roots to your flesh
And find us dancing in your blood
You don't have to tiptoe around your heart
Dig in. Know it. Own it.
Trust the knowing will bless your lips and your hips
And set your world on fire!
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
There there my dear, it's only a scratch, another one for the collection.
Antiseptic wipe; Dettol 99.9% by the way.
Indignancy felt but ushered into a comfortable seat with nice back support and leather upholstery.
Tomato Ketchup.
"This is just wrong, this will not stand!!" A deafening barely audible roar.
Look there is a fly banging its head against a glass window. He repeats the action over and over.
A spark flies and it blinds. Sweet immersion. Embrace. Warmth. Comfort.
A bubble. Suspension. The gaze into a lover's eyes....post ****** of course!
Cinema ticket stubs, bloated belly, extra butter. The cold walk home.
Sorry, I have none on me or I left mine inside or look away.
Discrepency and some thing dis jointed. Lack of understanding. Inward spirals.
HellNoweWontgO, away they went in disgruntled silence. Not a stain nor a mark on the beautiful tree lined streets.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
I find my emptiness at the beginning
of panic. The time changes, and as I pause,
between the magic and the real, a sudden
nothingness descends, and somebody
goes away, plans forgotten and mislaid.
It does not matter that the dark falls
too early, skies damp with the the
hopefulness of being confused again.
Even dancing holds no appeal, as
the music is plastic pop with a beat
but without heart. I sense the pouring
little I've become, escaping only when
hour clicks to another number.
Darkened rooms lend whispers.
Can you hear them? Let the sentences drop
and fall into a descending tone, for the
collection of platitudes are heavily
pregnant with hints of beeping bells.
They've gathered here, manifest
with their antiseptic concerns
Mumbling to one another even though
the sentences are necessarily vacant.
What small measure of happiness I
am able to endure is saturated with
routines that are tiresome, heavily laden
with standing still in rolling cyclones.
I kick at the plastic straws that litter
the drinking cups of plans come undone.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
We turned the sun
into a scourge
Burned two cities in Japan.
It was not antiseptic.
It was not friendly.
It was ****** on a scale
that the world
has come to know too well
but by a means
that upset the balance
of nature
The magnetic forces
of the atom unhinged
set off on lunatic paths
to arrive at something
like the sun
Flesh was peeled from bone
that day
faces peeled from skulls
This is not a pretty thing
not a bedtime story
for your kids
Yet our taxes pave a path
to the next generation
of hell-found missiles
aimed deliberately
and directly
at the hopes
the domestic fears
the quiet anxieties
the moments of wonder
of love
the kiss in the morning
goodbye
the welcome home in the evening
of every person alive today.
Is there a way
to say
No?
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
Girl
I was brought into this world
Covered in my own mother’s blood.
Soaked and glistening
Under the florescent lights.
Red dripping onto the linoleum floor.
Metallic scent intermingling with antiseptic.
My vocal cords were the first things to come in.
My screams battled my mother’s.
My screams shattered the doctor’s ear drums.
Years passed and I learned how to be quiet.
Years passed and I stretched.
I was a bulb planted in a field.
I was tended to the same way the girl next to me was,
But I didn’t grow quite right.
Fire
I swallow hot coals
Like some swallow gum.
They stick to my insides for 7 years.
For years I was convinced I was water.
Fluid and easy.
Fluctuating between a trickle and a storm.
But now I realize
I am fire.
Flames like tongues enter my slacked jaw.
There is no easy way to handle me.
Myth
When I was a child
My father would read the Book of Revelation to me.
While most little girls got
Goodnight moon, goodnight stars.
I got the ***** of Babylon.
I was built by stories.
Armored with words dripping from
Ancient people’s lips.
By the time I was nine I could
Recount the abduction of Persephone
In less than twelve seconds.
Because of Persephone
I will not eat pomegranate seeds.
Skin
Do not be fooled by the softness of my skin
Or the white of my pigment.
I am not a diamond, I am not a ruby.
I am flesh, I am human.
I am wrapped in a body that loves me
And I will love it back.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I have no tongue for whiskey.
In turn, the whisky tasting
was a waste.
I got drunk
unenjoyably.
Maybe whisky's best use is as an
emergency antiseptic.
Someone asked, "How was that one?"
"The physical manifestation of 'NO'."
Walking home,
I fear this will be the taste
I taste while dying.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC