Bottle shops are grottos,
I, too, could go blotto,
But that is so not me,
Your catty comments are for free,
I remain, always chirpy!
Night goes wrong gone by gone
Eleven sharpened by bell tolls
Last wipes failed in scrambled line
Shake the grip till bleached
Squeezing of faith blows a worship dirt
Night closes sins by wrong summon
Twelve pointed by curved hands
Silence gasped with dark lullaby
Trivium lied about lines and curves
Engaged big rhetoric wrapping logic
Night designated as a place curse
No more clock numbers shown
The bell blinded all clangs
Agony straddled a hundred murmurs
Fro and prone wrecked in pieces
Ante meridian written out all loads
Sketch phobia noticed panic
Galloped dimes to the Lord
Mashed five fingers full of tones
Here you are debris clings
Belonging to the forenoon or moon
Since the first as scratches furs
Marked colors both kiss and prick
Breeches of crying goes blotto
Stoned drawing flashed hustle soul
Thrones and domes breed fleet
Grinding wave of anon pruned bristles
All red and reddish
Aware the morning lapped rest
Mopped silhouette of you
You're really not drunk if you can lie on the floor
“Without holding on” good for a couple of beers more
Till your mind goes blotto
Your name you forgot-o
Promise to stop drinking, gonna start tomorrow
There once was a lass from Toronto
Loved being ridden like a bucking bronco
Enjoyed a rough ride
“Ride 'em cowboy” she cried
Till her senses they became totally blotto
© Jack Ellison 2015
Drains so sleepy.
Dreams so smelly.
Waking in the kitchen
face-down on the telly...