Monday, August 29, 2022

An Alcoholic Literary Note By Timothy Resau


This crisp August morning

with razor sharp sun-shadows—

almost too clear to be real,

race by this page—

I will try to produce

spiked words, like mixed drinks,

dropping off a vodka tongue.

Images from a salt-stained heart

enter smoldering brain cells and

crash to the alphabetic letter:


—Will anyone know?

—Does everyone know?


The hidden memories bare the proof,

like those empty bottles hidden

behind copies of Beckett, Bierce, Brautigan—

blanked by booze and hangover fatigue.

This sickness, this “Irish” sickness—

oh, Christ, the lost years of spilled dreams

replaced by gutter screams and horror shows—

this whiskey reality

of Wino promises and total loss of self.






Timothy Resau has been published in the U.S., Canada, Portugal, and the U.K. Recently his work has been in Adelaide Literary MagazineSideways Poetry MagazineSylvia MagazineThe Beautiful Space, and an essay is forthcoming in Loch Raven Review, as well as poetry in Rat’s Ass Review, Native Skin, and Pure Slush. He’s just completed a novel called Three Gates East. His career has been in the international wine industry.

 

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