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Poem

Fermentation

Rumpled like a ceiling mirror 
Staring at an unmade bed,
Like burned tyres of a revolution,
Like a beach without sand,
A wood pecker without a beak,
Like a baby born with a cord around his neck.
Marks of birth etched all over me, 

I feel the sugar oozing,
I taste the sour,
Having turned.

We didn’t wake up to find the lights out:
Screws slowly undone with every fight,
I hate you and forgive you then hope.
But it wasn’t wine brewing. 

The kisses that flew out the window,
Every morning as you returned with a whiff of her.
My love sinking six feet every night,
As I clutched at lonely pillows, 
While you sank into her,
Behind conference room doors 
In meetings that never were.

I feel fermented
And it taste like hate from 1939,

Brewed in my soul through a love glycolysis.
My veins filled with ethanol and alcohol,
Inebriated with pain and I drink,

From this glass of sorrow, 
In memory of your past. 
Celebrating your death,
The last time you tasted of her sugar
While I drenched in this lactic acid.

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