Treasure Island

Mark R Slaughter


Alcoholic


Red bled the sun upon a dying day.
I was red across the dial – in denial –
Purple bags bemoaning alcoholics’ eyes –
Blind, they still portray a depth of ruin
You’ll never understand.

I boozed away until another trial,
Always doing wrong inside a wrong
Inside a wrong – forgetting all the rights –
Fretting, drinking, pinking up, stinking:
Ah! the meths; I drank another round.

Red eased into the night; black scoffed.
I was black across the eyes – no surprise!
Ethanolic fumes resumed their nightly play.

I couldn’t pray,

So crimson haemoglobin gave display
Of flush as vessels opened wide.
Red gushed – oesophageal varices
Teased, eased the endothelium;
Brought it all to split.

Erythrocytic fire flared across
A park of haggard flesh.
I choked in red; died like a fish
Ripped, stripped by a shark
Artistically in dance through
Gritty clouds of death-blood.

Red spread the cold and solid ground.
I was cold – a deathly mound
Surrounded by an audience of shuffling feet.
Replete, my corpse had played its role.

No more the alcoholic porn;
No more the savaged soul.


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010










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life life life life life life life life life life life in strife
life life life life life life life life life life life

life life life life life life life life life life life in strife
life life life life life life life life life life life

life life life life life life life life life life life in strife
life life life life life life life life life life life to take the knife

Submitted: Saturday, November 20, 2010
Edited: Saturday, December 31, 2011

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