| ::10:29:07::
::: Dying Bottle of Wine :::
Screw! Pop! AH! like a Sprite commercial.
Her eyes gleam in the fire
her toes curl barefoot in the cool night air
Do I dare to ask, or go high class
Animal urges saved for someone special.
But pussies temporary
Yet I still anticipate the divine
So I sip and I swill at this dying bottle of wine.
Because were all in debt to the linear scale of time.
I drink and swill at this dying bottle of wine.
And I'm young, but old, but old with my idea
That I'm Jack Keroac incarnate, just add substance(s)
Maybe I've breathed in his ashes and maybe they had some effect
But this effect I select to forget
And the choice I've made is solely mine
So I sip and I swill this dying bottle of wine.
I think will I have daughters? Will I have sons? And wonder the color of their eyes
Because she's already decided, at least that's what I'd like to believe
Sometimes I wonder if its even possible to fall in love
and if it is I suppose I've let myself stumble
temporarily, momentary, maybe, possibly, perhaps?
And I promise and swear that I DON'T believe
Only to find myself praying because it makes me feel like a kid again.
Mom, Dad, but no dog.
A useless imagination because electronic distraction was easy to find
So I sip and I swill this dying bottle of wine
Its funny relying on elevators for like almost totally an entire year
And that's the superfluous sh*t I have to hear
If I want a warm breath steady on my ear-
when "Curious George" full of cotton use to be more than enough.
And her scent from my mouth a blue mark on neck
I don't know her name, or even what to expect
I sleep unsteady my head half on her strange pillow.
I'm afraid to kiss her, I know I should though.
How it happened was a different story
Just another like the rest
Not worth of prose, poetry at best.
I aspire like my heroes to write without rhyme
But cant write straight without confidence in my lines.
And when no companies around, with Kundera I dine
Sipping and swilling this dying bottle of wine.
Sometimes I buy things just to give me something to do.
Parents plastic for Jack Daniel's necessitated latex.
At least there's congruity; They both require
Sliding, slipping, dipping, I'm ripping my life to shreds.
Because these f*cking letters matter more than me and myself
There purpose to add zeroes to a paycheck I don't want to collect.
At least I'm pretty sure that's how it work's, now if only I knew why?
Its inevitable my body will decline, and coughing isn't a concern over a steady movement of time, till it is far to late to ever even possibly refine.
Sitting in my thoughts, contemplating what was once mine
Sipping and swilling this dying bottle of wine.
Hollow resignation with steady bubbles to the back.
As it turns out some hip hop "aint that wack."
Wrote an essay on Wu-Tang, worried terrible bout the grade
in memory
I thought it was fun.
If it's not what they want, hey, I'm still young, right?
But don't we all say that with hope?
Sometimes being young is not being dead. Age is relative to who your next too
I saw it in the eyes of my roommates grandma, but maybe that's just wishful thinking
Mine or hers?
"But it doesn't matter," he says.
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter."
the clatter of munchkin feet patter deep while I contemplate sleep.
Tupac wrote poetry, along with Allen Ginsberg, and my dad.
Who I sometimes call late at night slightly intoxicated
with questions about books?
"Trujillo killed Kennedy?"
He laughs, I do too, its sad that I didn't ask in person.
I feel privileged to pillage my liver, mouthfuls at a time.
When those accusatory questions sit on my mind.
I could always buy a supplementary dime.
But In reality I'd rather sip and swill this dying bottle of wine.
But its dead, the only bottle I had, so I sit alone, fingers curled around cold black glass.
Written by: ~ Joe Riley |
