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Contemplating the Vagaries of Love and Romance in the Shadow of My Former Liver – Reykjavik, circa 1978

October 8, 2009

Night time now and I
breathe in the vodka
with a twist of irony as my liver sits
beside me and
chides me and
spits at me from its
red velvet
chair as if in the
air the spittle becomes
fair before landing in my
hair. It’s such a Communist that way.

Once

(when I still knew the taste of
first love’s sweat), I could run
from banister to rail slapping
the walls and tripping
festive down the steps into
a street filled with
crooners and lovers and
children painted in the hue of

smiles.
Now my steps are all
crook’d and my streets lined with
pimps and dozens of hookers,
minus one that snores

beside me. Her touch

flaccid, tongue
acid, like drops of holy
water to the damned; I paid her extra

to stay

and sleep.

It’s a far better thing to be
disgusted with what you keep
for company
than to face the sunrise

alone

with your liver’s spit in your
hair and the taste of despair
flowing somewhere into your
sheets in the form of what used to

be gin and now
is a sin of shame,

omission,
passion, and
wanton disobedience
of the truth. She’s left
in a hurry, rushed out

by the stench of my
biologically processed alcohol
pooling in the mattress
around her
mechanically enhanced breasts
until they blend into one
scene of immorality – piss or tit,

it’s all the same. To love is to shame. At least
I came. So I win

the game.
And tomorrow I’ll buy a new

player.

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