Gary Diamond Poems

Even with a belly full of good food.
Even miles away from the work day grind.
Even seven drinks to the wind.
A little thing is there
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The screech of sobriety, the reverse hangover.
The black and blue brow-beaten headaches.
Where the throat is dry and the limbs must shake.
The fear pushing under the nails like spikes and shards.
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Endlessly that preoccupies us.
Finding a pattern
Sticking with it.
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I prefer the things we've given up on.
I'd prefer to not wash for days
Wear my favourite stinking clothes
Drink last nights beer.
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Trying to thread a needle through a hole several sizes too small.
Figuring out a pattern and laughing hard at it because it doesn't belong.
Oh no never that hard to fathom
Oh no, never really any different
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I wished for the doors to shut
I wished for the final curtain
I wanted you, the unwanted, to give me that
But both of us were uncertain.
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It's the insult I throw as I defeat a foe of some kind
Maybe just uncorking this cheap Italian wine.
Yield to the pressure you are put under.
Lead as the pressure tears the standing gent asunder.
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That is the definition of a memory.
An after-image fading somewhat too quickly.
Some of the best things you have seen and done
Got amalgamated into a mediocre one.
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If ever there was good advice
God's advice
It was
Leave it alone.
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There is a building.
Brightly lit on the outside
Brightly lit on the inside.
It's a beacon
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