She has the temerity to be the encompassing stanzas of debauchery and reason

I sink my sorrow and pitiful
heart in the last drink
of the evening
“Fortnight”
warbles in the background
the nails on my fingers torn up
from when we were against the wall
and I gripped the bricks so hard
they tore from the quick

the push me pull me conflicts my torment
her hellfire-lips and marauder gaze
hold me captive
there’s a trashed love letter
crumpled and tear stained pinned to the wall
in some kind of sick offering
to put us both out of our misery
where we can wake each day
grasp at smoke
stare too long at a sun sinking into waves reminisce about the time we were
the rulers of worlds

so now
whiskey makes the poem
I just write it down with unsteady fingers
and wood-smoked-barrel-rust cloying
on my tongue

her lipstick made me forget I should ask
if she’s married
ask if there’s another
alcohol makes me petulant and
roaring
full of old conquests and glories
in the days when I was a raider of black panties
a shotgun fisted bad guy
somehow she looks more available when I put on my armour of ego and swinging dick bravado
the illusion of happiness in the open wound of lust.

I find sex is the allure of the lonely
the slink in off-kilter scramble your brains
flirting with petrol soaked rags lit match
between your teeth type

I need to go
I want to stay
and still I can’t figure out the right way
to do any of it

except to laminate that love letter
so I can slit my wrists with it
daily

bleed out every sentiment
of what could have been