Beer turns me dull
and wine makes me giddy.
Whiskey finds me quarrelsome,
while vodka makes me sickly.
Absinthe always helps to forget
the mistakes I have forged
dancing nightly with the devil,
hundred proof tequila gorged.
There is only one potion
I have ever experienced
which leaves me thirsty, grasping,
frowning, laughing, and delirious.
Love, the greatest spirit of them all,
like a kick straight to the balls
or the gentle caress of a flaming car wreck
or the screams from a panicked nightmare
or the wet, sloppy peck on the nape of my neck.
It’s a rum and coke
and a Cuba that’s free,
Liberated from the everyday,
on the house, complimentary.
Love thrills and spills secrets,
it leaves dishes encrusted and dirty.
The stains remain permanent
and the filth keeps us sturdy.
Like swifts led astray seeking warmth
it builds a nest in the hearth
of even the most dilapidated home
waiting for the kindle to give birth.
But, when the pub shutters the windows
and personal supply runs dry,
the approaching tempest makes it
impossible to once again fly high.
These shakes are the wrong kind of mixing,
combining the bitters with the tears in my flask.
Some salt forms on the rim of my mouth
instead of the edge of a rocks glass.
It’s been seventy two hours
and the symptoms are settling in.
The withdrawal claws and kicks my
guts, torn asunder, forcing a pained grin.
No bartender can drown it out,
no doctors can heal this.
Her kiss is the bourbon,
and her lips are the garnish.