Almost Dead

And so it came to pass as I raised a bourbon glass and tossed a bolt of fire down my throat; the ash from cigarettes glowed as dying suffragettes, chained to wrists of every weeping, wailing ghost. A thirst I could not slake was just icing on the cake, as the closing bells resounded in the night; every thought was dank and weary, every eye was red and bleary, every virgin born again without a blight. Transistors crackled sound from a cavern in the ground, satisfaction blaring tinny and distorted; time expanded then it shrank with every mouthful that I drank and the womb of reason shrivelled and aborted. How transmissions swelled and swam through the downing of each dram, until the floor lay as a most inviting bed; how I loved her very bones and how I loved the rolling stones, how I loved the old gods who were almost dead. Sat here in the Gwesty Bach with rock and roll and Mrs Plath wielding firebrands of culture round my head, how I loved her I admit, every semblance, every bit, how I loved the old gods who were almost dead.