Thirst

BOOZE, inward fire of an inward frailing, yielding view
ASKEW on self, on life, all blurred by buzz, curved by thirst.
REUSE crutch, drink each day’s addled quant of time outside of time.
PAYEE: mad, sad habit. Payer: liver, or the thread through it all, or the better moments never met.

GUILT–theologians argue its inheritance, moderns banish it from
BIRTH. Yet he knows, in sober moments: his thirst is his own.
QUOTH a voice between his ears: perhaps today I will not drink, will
EVADE my urge. And then, as thirst builds, says the voice: perhaps tomorrow.

STUNG to soul’s root by thirst, he asks: is there in the
SHAPE of him, in the depths of him, any part of him that does not
QUAIL at facing life, that does not flee his day, that does not
BLURT to him: drink, drink, so this day might wane and tomorrow seem far off?

BRICK of alley wall, he stumbles, he slurs. Brick more solid than himself–
TIGHT chain, as it tightens, loosens hold on all, till self seems glassy leaned on brick.
SHOWY beauty of drink, light through amber fluid, showy burning in his throat,
ARDOR of his thirst: what substance in this show, what memories to call his own in the chambers of a reeling mind?