Illnesss

Illness,

like the word it creeps

beneath my veins.

Like a snake it crawls.

There is nothing I can do

to prevent the insidious

creeping of this sick twisted

fucked up

concept,

So I drink.

So I drink red wine

and pinot grigio

when the red wine fails.

There is a need to accomodate,

there is an insecurity

which allows the festering

wank to accumalate and

breathe. To live. Because

there is an insecurity that

we are anything different.

We are anything more, anything

higher, anything purer. There

is a doubt.

So we drink. We drink and fuvk and

we punch we attempt to punch

intangible things direct in the face

the dutch courage alcohol affords

affords that and we smack

something black fat

in the face.

Later we sleep and

we pour our selves out into

the sea.

Which is still clear and blue and deep,

Which is still absolute

in it’s calm indifference.

We pour it out and it laps it

up and it holds it,

becauase it is so huge

it can.