In the back of my mind, you see,
I filed away that Gordon’s Vodka
was on sale – when the excuse came,
I bought it in a glorious name:
I signed my check Charles Bukowski.
the waves keep on singing
thrashing my shores with scourges of driftwood:
I pour the alcohol in nonstop
from a weatherbeaten clifftop.
a lizard glitters under a broad ivy leaf,
sapphires for eyes and mottled scales,
daughter of the dragons we murdered in Wales
with rationality as comfortable as grinding my teeth.
the waves sing because they are free
blissfully ignorant of the landlocked me.
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