Tuesday, March 04, 2008

The Spirits

Every drink kills a city of ideas
reverberating like an electric-city
of mad abstraction in the
subconscious landscapes of my electric
movie house. So, I drink again and
again—hoping that the next drink
will induce a blackout of
Enron-like proportion. I drink again
in the hopes of hushing
the world within and flooding
the whole goddamn thing
with the sweet ethanol
tides of Lethe unleashed. I
drink for the embrace of
shadows and the silence of
an eternal necropolis unfolding, so
that I might finally gaze at the
speckles of cosmic light harbored
above. I drink to erase the everything
so that only truth remains—that great big
nothing of cold, cold space. I drink to fill
the bottomless vacuum of a nauseous
soul's stomach. I pour this vodka starlight
into a translucent glass and gulp down
a hard bite of oblivion and then I do it
again and again.

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