No Drink. No Life.

I have tired of hangovers.
I have not tired of drinking.
My lungs cannot tolerate all this smoking.
I only smoke when I drink.
I have not lost tolerance for all this drinking.
My guts are a simmering pot of glue.
My eyes catch phantoms lurking in the peripheries.
Nonexistent menace crawls the skirting boards.
Fingers tremble.
Esophagus wretches.
I ate French toast and can’t remember.
Illness cradles my face like a psychopaths loving hands
in the tender moments
before she snaps your neck.
Alacrity anchors far from the shore
where naked blasphemers crab walk into breaking waves
leaving sand as barren as the inside of a scoured skull
that has heard bloated pancreas tales
witnessed failed kidney picture plays
and told the dead liver romances
in the days of ears and eyes and lips and tongues
and although those are gone days
I have not tired of drinking.

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