Author: jacklantic

Drink up

Perhaps a new tradition;
arriving late, restaurant closed,
I chose instead to tread
the halls, and find my way to stalls
where shorts (not talls) call me to come hither;
not shots, but drops swirled round a snifter.
Lift the spirits, gins, and bitters.
Quick! Before the final call.
Drink up. Leave tip. Goodnight to all.

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A comfortable glass of solitude

What I long for now is a rainy night,
looking out at it through a pane of glass
in some pokey, wooden bar;
a warm, apple cider with cinnamon,
the occasional jingle and crack of the door,
voices huddled,
jolts of laughters from down the bar
or in the booths,
alone, but not lonely,
so accompanied by the orange light,
unburdened of time or purpose,
I am here to observe, and to be observed,
toying with a line or two,
hanging out with my muse,
cheers-ing to the heavy drops
collecting on the cross-hatch,
working through the stages, methodically –
hitting grief only briefly,
hitting self-pity only once,
and bouncing back but armed with this:
I love who I am, and I’m doing so well,
and it’s ok that my clothes are damp,
that my drink’s a little cooler,
that my moment’s not shared,
because nothing stays,
not gold nor grey.

Know thyself

I worry about the journal,
of what it may unearth in me,
of what it may encourage,
feeding into self-delusion
or fantasy;
an insidious creep of personality
that might as well go fuck itself
for all its lack of insight.

Though insight it might, a different plight
that I can’t (nor shall not) bear;
it gobbles up my words and whims,
and shits out all my care.

Congratulations. You know yourself.
And what a crock of fucking wealth.

Shake

Am I hindered by the clasp
that wraps electric round my wrist,
or by the sleek and silent tile
that sneaks its way into my fist?

And suddenly, there’s so much noise,
like burying my face in coke,
and even as I turn away,
the high remains, my eyes awoke
and bright in dark. I swear I spoke
a prayer into that dizzy night
to let me sleep, and hold her tight,
without the fear and anxious din,
without it pawing for my PIN,
without the midnight altercations,
without the heat manifestations
taking form beside my bed;
I leap and try to knock it dead,
and cry out something vile, and see
there’s nothing facing back at me,
just beads of sweat to burn my eyes,
and force me back to bed half-blind,
attempting once again to shake
my perma-state of half-awake.

I tried to take it slow

Being careful not to touch too much,
it neatly lies in line and order.
Ready as I’ll ever be.
Perhaps you’ll note the efforts made.

I wonder if you’ll see me first,
if you’ll be in that army-green jacket,
boots and shorts…
and instantly I’m lost to thoughts
of smooth legs and pressing hips,
of kisses on your smiling lips,
that I may well be the luckiest guy,
and intend the chance to not be wasted,
turning on the charm and chatter,
begging you to look at me
in that way
so I know it’s okay to draw my hand,
course it through the narrows,
and wrap about your waist.
Begin to taste the sharp inhales,
anticipating a clumsy rush
and mindful pause,
to take it in.

To us, we move as if in water,
slowly pushing through the deep,
but to all others it must look like fire,
twisting into knotted towers,
sparking at the edges,
burning at both ends.

Begun

I’m on the cusp of freedom,
but it’s one left-turn from losing faith,
falling hard for hopelessness,
like young, obsessive love,
wasting in the waters,
wallowing while grinning,
a drunk slur melting my expression,
revelling in ruminance.

This pity too is one deep breath
from the imminent escape,
the blatant understanding that there’s no such thing as fate,
unless we take the concept to be nothing in itself,
the story you have written, given to your younger self,
impossibly told back to you, before you had begun,
and begin you must, it waits for none, it has begun,
it has begun.