3/ 30 Between Mouthfulls

3/30

BETWEEN MOUTHFULLS

The labels on alcohol bottles become gnashing jaws
of what the neighbours would say
as you wade through the darkness of a solitary night
like a stranger on foreign soil,
cause you're not use to independence.
Not one for your own company
so you try to make a crowd of bottles
at your Tom Cruiseless bar.
No showmanship.
No extravagance.
No hippy, hippy shake,
just the intimacey of the honesty
of a self poured shot of 4.
Playing truth or dare
with yourself
when the bottle falls and spins,
a drunken ballarina
pirouetting without balance.
As definate as glass
you profess your deepest secret to the air
your teeth never knew of your confessional tongue.
It always sounds different out loud.
Less scary but stronger
and definate as hell,
like a death sentenced switch flipped between mouthfulls of gin
you'll gladly forever plead guilty to.

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