Tag Archives: hangover

The Ghost of the Bottle Lingering Around Like a Bad Spirit in an Empty House

Right now my tongue
is an insufferable monstrosity
and trapped
inside of a dry cave.

The shooting pain between
my ears
doesn’t know where to go
so it just expands
into a Godless oblivion.

I can feel every inch of my slow death
like a man clawing
at the door to Hell
to escape the cold.

I didn’t realize
that bottle of wine
was this much
my enemy.

So I must spend some time
lying face down
upon the ground
to let the Earth
continue to mercilessly
roll over my petulant body
as my foot hits the leg
of a rickety table that
creaks skeletal laughter
echoing with
surprising acoustic
across the cement walls
of this endless garage.


All the Way to the Dump and it’s Only Tuesday

I open one eye
the other has fallen behind.
In fact, it may not get up today at all
and I would be forced to wear a patch
or explain why it is that I look like
I’m having a continuous stroke:
“Oh my eye? No, it’s not lazy or reluctant.
It’s dead.

That’s okay. Things pass.
Would you like some salsa?”

Dates would be awkward
because if there is anything wrong with your eyes
it’s because you stare at porn and small children
who also stare at porn.

The one eye that I have opened
has landed on an empty wine bottle
that glares back at me accusingly
like it’s my fault.
Wait, I took a wine bottle to bed?
Jesus, what does that mean?
That I had to bring it just in case
I couldn’t make it upstairs and to my bed
without having a drink?

That speaks volumes about something
that I don’t want to think about
without taking one.

The sadist sun outside the window
is the most aggressive thing I have seen
in billions of years.
It’s like a supernova that is purposefully
reaching into my brain to incinerate
everything that I have ever learned
about happiness and sanity.

It will soon blind my one good eye
and then there will be no point
in doing anything but continuing to
lie here
for the rest of the year.

I check my phone.
I have a single text from Katy:
“You’re such a fucking asshole!”
is all that it says.
I have no idea who Katy is.

The garbage trucks outside
are applying their squealing brakes
every two meters and it is as grating
as my ex off meds and it’s like
they know that I’m in here
in this room filled with darkness
and self-loathing
in pain from boozing so they’re moving
extra slow today and they’ll be back
around for the other side of the road in about
fifteen minutes
hooting, hollering, screaming at each other
likes sailors at port or children
on the first day of summer
jeering, winking, carousing
slapping asses, making faces
honking their horn while
applying their unlubricated brakes
laughing maniacally
all the way to the dump.

And it’s only Tuesday.