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.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006
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