In the last hours the vodka has gone.
A green lime lays limp with paled pith
Leaching its last juices subliminally.
Rounded ice pearls left for munching,
You suckle them free of mirth, crushing
Between the opaque molars in crunching.
I fumble your buttons, and clumsily hum
To the low, post-modern blow, some young
Marsalis wannabe is slowly letting run
Melodiously down the horn in wispy riff
As your paler flesh bursts forth warmly on
My open mouth and my lower self starts to stiff.
Champagne has flattened in a golden puddle
Like weak piss in the cup of my patient, Mort
Who will die tomorrow or should I be more subtle?
He would say, “Ya need to blow doc, a long
Climbing rumble that stretches up and scrapes
The dark sky leaving little tinkles along
The way, like stardust on your shirt”
Mort wheezed with dark eyes sunken
Into fallow cheeks to far removed to hurt.
Dawn breaks over a scarecrow shoreline
Nightly stripped of all pretensions,
A lone broken umbrella the color of wine
Flaps and flutters as though to escape
The damp spray while you pull and tug
Me deeper for the love we try and make.
Winds whip at the blue and my orange,
Weakened soul rises once more to blow over
You without thought for death at the far door.