I sit almost naked to the world,
Towel hanging loosely to my loins.
Dead muses acting as my butcher
and to the bottle, my hand rejoins.
Baker, Strayhorn, Cohen and Caplan
Remind me of my folly.
The 1-litre bottle of Wild Turkey catches my tears,
Tries to turn me a drunk on them, tries to make them holy
and gobbles. Or perhaps that is my weeping.
My head full of visions,
But I see nothing.
I hear art, passion and Baker’s knack for melancholy.
Mouth full of spirit, tongue tied with American Honey,
Yet all I speak,
All these muses to whom I sing,
For I must believe in Spring.
And here now I will end,
Without truly writing anything.
Image by: Michael Mroczek