Oh this life is blurry and unstable
when seen through the thick lens
of a bottle of gin
I sit in the half-light
of candlelit midnight
and entertain ghosts
at my writing desk
Sylvia whispers into my ear
lullabies of too short life
and secrets of the underworld
grandmother sits at my sewing machine
fondles flowery fabrics
beneath her nimble digits
the little black bitch
curls up at my feet
chasing a squirrel in her sleep
there's an unhappy fog
hanging heavy round the room
as I suck and puff and
eventually snuff out my fire stick
I run my finger
through the condensation
bathing my glass
and touch it to my cheek
tracing the path of its salty cousin
my ghosts keep me company
when the world is away
and no lover comes to caress me
they circle me envious
of my pulse and breath and blood-heavy veins
and I, ungrateful beast, covet their community
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