Upturned bottles once lined with military order
on dusty, termite-rotten shelves. Fingerprints,
clear spaces of use, caught by the shafts of daylight
through pin-holes where nails have been.
A puddle of spilt pain, beneath an upturned bench.
Life, wasted in boozy stench lies forgotten,
punished for excess, while determined creatures
march with hunger towards rotten snacks.
Dirt's secret world survives in semi-darkness.
Corrugated walls, rusting-red and brown. Drips
where rain had been, left tracks as if guiding
to the next place. A dark, dank, mud-bed
suitable for long soft round things
to slither and slide through eyes now closed.
Still focused on nightmare dreams, gone before.
Please NOTE: in retirement I have closed most of my web pages including francesmacaulayforde and poetscornerwa. Both of these pages have now been taken over by a bot. However, I have retained my Wordpress BLOG or my ETSY shop.
Response: No - I am not and never have been troubled with alcohol. In fact, I can't drink because it poisons me... but I can imagine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lined up? This seems like a beginning. Too many local knots of dark matter for the ropes to swing. Perhaps you could keep going with it.