He, whose mind presents no space untrammeled
down by the dock of his thought ship
sipping abortifacient brain brews
cheaper than on-tap lager, mind you –
yet to no avail, whats worse – erroneous predictions
wind and rain, battered bruised and broken sails, weeping captains
a turn toward the town where even devils shy from profligates
a turn toward the town where home is dirt and death and darkness
visitation haunts and aberrations, arbitrators of the great debate
strain these eye – emetic beverages to quench your thirst
pollack floors and dismal grunting
lonely barman howls
tolling lonely barman’s bell
last call – away with all the wicked
a turn toward the dock which beckons wild.