War Rages On
 
the wine flows freely like a piss-colored
river drowning villages. two empty 5L boxes
lying on the floor, defeated in the eternal battle against the page,
and the third one cracked and ready to follow its
brethren to the other side.
the war never ends, every battle lost nothing but the
signal for the commencement of the next one and the river
continues to flow until it transmogrifies into a tsunami
razing down metropolises and birthing atrocious monsters.
the page remains unconquered, unreachable, a distant
dream engendered in the lingering vapors that
rose from burning spoons.


Cold Air
 
the freezing air crawls down the lungs, giving a
small sting down there in the blackness. no waves
because ice blocks are covering the ice, the seagulls are hiding
in their nests somewhere warm. the sand’s petrified but we
could always find a soft spot, somewhere to sit and breathe in
the frigid air. we’d keep ourselves warm with bottles of
rotgut and 8balls of glass. the blue smoke we exhaled rose up,
heading for the moon, promising the aliens a good high.
we drank, we got high. held each other tight as the temperature
reached inhuman levels and we’d refuse to get up and escape the
beauty of isolation. no one else braced the winter cold and
it was how we loved it. as I walked home from the bars
in the cold, the freezing air brought back those cruel
memories of happier times; I punched a lamppost and
almost threw myself in front of a speeding truck.
I got into the first bar I saw, ordered a glass of Patron neat.
it tasted just like those nights at a distant beach and had to
use Jim Beam and rum to wash away the pain.