Morning

I’m going to get my drunk on
on wet ground and under wet skies
on the corpses of memories
and the extinction of vision
I’m going to get fucked up while
the morning is still young and the caress
of dreamless sleep lingers in forgotten amnesty
I’m going to smoke too much
and stagger and mumble and cry
and scream at the tulips in the garden
for having the temerity to be
alive and bright
There is no exculpation
no exoneration for imaginary sins
just the violent splash of toxic rain
into an angry glass
and my fingers will fly, writing with abandon
venting nameless emotions and shapeless thoughts
garnered in crisis and booze

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