~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XXXII~

By WordWulf, 11th Apr 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/_t9aadrx/
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Letters

~Whiskey Lament~ Wikinut http://goo.gl/03b0f ~ aborted strangers in the mud ~ Jim Morrison ~ two great European narcotics ~ alcohol and Christianity~ Nietzsche ~ I realize I am only what I've always been ~ a half-assed nothing ~ Charles Manson ~ filled with mingled cream & amber I will drain that glass again ~ Poe ~ two things I can’t stand ~ sober people when I’m drunk & drunk people when I’m sober ~ WW ~

~Whiskey Lament~
~Flowers Falling~
~Wild Women~
~Madmen~

~Whiskey Lament~

Through you, the flower of life, its colors diffused in distorted rainbow flashes of yellow midnight bar room light, her ragged petals wilting in a formless drifting storm of night smoke. Still, she is a tired flower floating in the indifferent liquid of your rancid breath. You ran your stupid stumbling hand down the length of her in a rough and tumble caress, bruising her skin, mumbling incoherently, “You like it.”

~Flowers Falling~

Until your fingers found the spirit of her secret places she kept where she was tied to earth and sky. They squeezed her there, ripped her from the earth, never hearing the plaintive wail, sorrow in the silent scream she made. Others cut her, placed her in a bowl where she flows with currents, crashes with the tide into a yellow liquid, an incoherent jumble of voices and glass.

~Wild Women~

In the liquid prism of her new world she forgets about the tear as she swallows you to fulfill her unanswered need to cry. She has a cruel sense of falling but never comes to earth again, staggering about under the influence of your hollow breath.

~Madmen~

We drink a cup or two or ten and press our faces against the frozen window, agony’s mirror of lost hope.
We cry for you with each swig we attempt to die for you until we become bloated, floating flowers, rootless and faded. Ah whiskey, you make us real. Without you we are dried up, pressed between the brittle pages of our lives until the winds of time whisper, riffling the pages and blow us away. Ain’t no good whiskey men on the wind. We are floating phat in the dark liquid of our gloom, laughing and pinching the tits of the night ladies. We are yours until the sun brings us down again. Amen and amen.

~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XXXI~
~Until We Don’t~
~George’s Hands~

Meet the author

WordWulf
Tom Sterner lives in Redding, California and Arvada, Colorado with wife Kathy. He has been published in numerous magazines and on the internet, including Howling Dog Press/Omega, Skyline Literary Review, The Storyteller, and Flashquake. His interne...(more)