Power is like bourbon stinging the tip of my tongue.
Swelling to sweetness as it moves.
Warming as it sinks to my stomach.
There was a time where the heat did not work.
Where I used bourbon to move warm my fingers
So I could rattle my keyboard a little more.
I wonder if this induced heat did more than warm.
If it awakened in me the pain that I could spew
Onto the paper in quatrain-couplet unconsciousness.
Like Hemmingway, but in the wrong era.
Alchohol is still glorified, but the product of it-
My induction to art, is dead in the grave.
Burried only 4 feet deep, a shallow grave
It’s not too late to dig her back up.
On the gravestone it reads in mossy chisel:
THE ABILITY TO CREATE
CREATION – 1961
MURDERED BY SENSATIONALISM
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