This page defies my aching pen, smears the blotted stain I rend from out its holy genie’s lamp, cold and coughing, moist and damp… yet here between each stolen pause, I dance, I sing, I gestate cause to linger long in separation, bound to morsel’s reparation caught between elixir’s truth… sipped again, glazed in proof…. Aha!
“Page me!” yet again I yell, toward this staggered nib and well, “Page me past this floundered try that calls tomorrow’s post I cry!”
Turning toward another blank white sheet of hope, in blue lined rank, I stagger from this drunken poise to still the fire, quell the noise that drifts in hints of winter’s wind around the quill and errant pen…
“Ink me, please kind muse of love! Ink my hand, my soiled dove that draws a drunken prayer poor, draws past lust and sullen whores! Ink me!!!!”
Alas the cloud of rum and lust have rendered useless this book and stuff, that tho’ I carry where e’er I’m bound, tonight just spirit can be found, and so I turn to cork and crook, stay the pen, close the book and drink until all’s taken back, the words, the rhyme, the poem in slack… drink me!
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