Last Night Last night I drank to one too many pretty women last night I fed on a feast of friends, this morning my mind is filled with lip-stick and my memory is fat from remembering, that the world can be piss stained and glorious at the same time as the kind earth's head be black-bagged and hung with hempen rope like a black American found guilty of being poor. Last night I kicked a door down to get to you last night I picked you up so easily, this morning you stink my room out, an editors corpse drunk dry and returned, the words downed by one shot. Where can a poet go now but out into the streets petrol bomb poured, zip lighter cocked flame flickering, the wick cool and blue like the soul inside a burning monk? Today Today you poured out one too few drinks today you starved on a famine of loves, this evening your heart is empty of kisses and your dreams are thin from forgetting, that the moon can be fog bound and mysterious at the same time as the cruel seas open and wide be white-winged and free on the soft warm blows like an African pearl asleep in the black tide. Today you rapped on my mind like a top ten today you picked me up so slowly, this evening you scent my hiding place, a writers thirst sobered up and hidden, the words found by your eyes. Where can a poet be now but inside the moment double whiskey singular, ice cubes floating heat haze rising, the liquid red and black like the bonfire of our love letters in Autumn? Tomorrow Tomorrow I will fill up one too many places tomorrow I will gorge on a banquet of hates, in this future my mind is full of faces and my regrets are stuffed from promises, that the sun will forever burn towards its end at the same time as the kind earth opens its hand be black coal spinning in the hard cold of space, an American soldier at peace in a white desert. Tomorrow you will calm me down like King Cole tomorrow you will put me down so hard, that evening you will leave me losing everything, a writer's secrets made obvious, the words written by your listens. Where can a poet be then but outside futurity cards dog-eared, hot thoughts gambled cold dice rolled, my falling cuts left bleeding here, the snakeskin of your devil hanging on my bedpost? John G. Hall
If you've any comments on this poem, John G. Hall would be pleased to hear from you.