Sour Mead (excerpt from late spring)

Better invent than suffer: imagine victims
Lest your own flesh be chosen the agonist, or you
Martyr some creature to the beauty of the place.”
—  Robinson Jeffers

End of Spring, 2013.

It feels so warm, so cozy.  It’s the touch of a lover’s caress.
Their arms around you.
It’s a back-rub and a whisper that everything will be OK.

It pads across the floor with you. Its bare feet whisper warm
across cold tiles.
It robs you of your memories and your thoughts
Supressing your wisdom — letting it circle the drain and slip away like a shoddy, dusty thing not fit to live in the house.

You always welcome it back, sip after sip, even if you don’t like
the taste, because there’s something else with its hand over yours.

Something strong and kind,
willing your hand around the neck of the bottle
Swallow by swallow,
Inviting poison into your veins
Inviting others into your heart

I’ve been thinking of suicide more than usual lately. A breakup. A standard occurence, where standard platitudes should fit.

A pooling night, a night of crying.
A night of screaming and of sighing,
And somehow this time also dying
found its way onto the menu.

And in my state of drunken weakness, I let others in who wanted to use me to end their own stories.
A psychic invasion of errant victims, vagabonds, savages and idiot savants that no one gave a chance to.
All that pain that doesn’t belong to me… has nothing to do with me… clotting in my heart.

They knew I was a writer, maybe.

Suicides peak at the end of spring, and here at the bridge more come than any other place in the world.
Well… all save one.

How is it that in a land full of beautiful weather and plentiful harvests
So many people would want to end their lives?

The gods frown on me, because I drink mead in sadness rather than in joy.
Only the slightest warning. An ache in the jaw. Somewhere between
the neck and the ears. They know this is wrong.

I know this is wrong.

 

(I don’t remember exactly which song I was listening to when I wrote this back in May. I do know this song held prominence once I’d found it.)

 

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3 thoughts on “Sour Mead (excerpt from late spring)

  1. Pingback: San Francisco Writers Convention – Pitchquest | KatanaPen

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