Alcoholic By: Mark R. Slaughter

Alcoholic

By: Mark R. Slaughter

Red bled the sun upon a dying day.
I was red across the dial – in denial –
Purple bags bemoaning alcoholics’ eyes –
Blind, they still portray a depth of ruin
You’ll never understand.

I boozed away until another trial,
Always doing wrong inside a wrong
Inside a wrong – forgetting all the rights –
Fretting, drinking, pinking up, stinking:
Ah! the meths; I drank another round.

Red eased into the night; black scoffed.
I was black across the eyes – no surprise!
Ethanolic fumes resumed their nightly play.

I couldn’t pray,

So crimson haemoglobin gave display
Of flush as vessels opened wide.
Red gushed – oesophageal varices
Teased, eased the endothelium;
Brought it all to split.

Erythrocytic fire flared across
A park of haggard flesh.
I choked in red; died like a fish
Ripped, stripped by a shark
Artistically in dance through
Gritty clouds of death-blood.

Red spread the cold and solid ground.
I was cold – a deathly mound
Surrounded by an audience of shuffling feet.
Replete, my corpse had played its role.

No more the alcoholic porn;
No more the savaged soul.