Drinks Poems And AA

There are reservoirs of molten gin in the liquor store down the road.
Bukowski thinks the man over the till has caught onto the habit that tears through the sheath of his permeable mind.
We are all absorbing our magma poisons. But he didn’t have to burn the store down. 
Vents of ethanol born steam, hate the wombs they come from. We are lost in air combustible to our nature but keep drinking pockets of phantom whiskeys or wine.
Cinder threaded livers. This group is -OH homologous. Circle meetings of sulphur confessions may help, but for now, the store is a burning mountain and we all just miss its rocks.
So, we breathe intoxicated. Breathalyse our futures till they are covered invisible.
Samantha was sixteen when it hit her - vision lead crystal film since then. Pauls got the shakes and sweats, but engulfed in convections of Jameson’s heated finest, his skin is dry and bones still. The poet should have left the store alone.
Yesterday our livers were in glass bottles. Who knows whose bile organs just slid down the flanks of the sometime ago building.
Shatter this oscillating conflict.
The street is impaired by fumes.
This is not art. This is addiction.
We drink the air he set alight.
The world is burning,

                                          but for the moment it doesn’t have us by the throat. 





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