Turgid

[Written originally some time ago in an alcohol infusoring session]

Why

Does not matter

Or it’s the only matter

Between genocide and suicide

In cowardice I shrink from the words

That would undo me

The clouded blear I might sweep away

The choice truly mine

But with truth so grating

What is so comfortless

About liquid lies

The caustic throats

Ready receivers

To be readily deceived

Perceived in a burning tide

That recedes not

For I fuel it so

Phosphorent mercies espied

Though ignored through the decadence

Of just one more

Another glass in falsity consumed

With verity verily swirling

A golden lust

Fairly spoken

If the words be formed

Through stuttering mouth

The truth may be there somewhere

I have the wit to see

But my choice is blindness

The meandering swoon

The supposed dearth of emotion

Coupled with a soaking rain

Of mourning unchecked.

Oh so easy to succumb

To a simple tilt

To the wrack of years

The wreck of palatial sanguinity

The sanctity of a taste

Though it be whim to the ultimate

The one that drives

The simmering slumber of mind

That boils from the inside

I wonder at the shrug of shoulders

Too immersed to care

Imbued as they are

Tethered to an iron imbiblical

Does this not flatter

Will you not stare

At a wretch so drowned

By tears and flasks unnumbered?

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