It all happens in thoughtless, wine fuelled action. The
bridge is closing, I can’t see for shit. Trawlers line the quay. Way back when
I thought I was someone I’d drink bottles of wine there. I’d cry if I wasn’t so
intent. Inside’s like melting tar. Some trendy passes by with a lit apple
insignia. I neck wine and hiss. The railing feels hot, wind buffers like it
gives a damn. Inside the jacket I’m sweating. Pooling used water against a
crying fit of determined flesh.
Relax.
I’m not trying to kill myself. But I’m waiting. Waiting on something to change.
The bridge is symbolic. Everything is symbolic if you think about it long
enough. The drunk blues haven’t hit. All thoughts are out of reach. I’m in the
present. Someone tells their girlfriend that they can’t hide from love. If I
wasn’t laughing so hard I’d be laughing real hard. My dick is full of spent
vino, I flip it out and get to spraying. The love dove calls me a scum bag.
“I’ll piss
on your sac!” I shout.
He
doesn’t retort. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so funny. Wine gets weightless. I
hit bottle two. Fuck the haters.
