two days with no sight of the end at hand

wilt warm the brandy is sipped by an expert
the wine is gulped like a fish on dry air
the beer is vats of fryer oil in the gut
the gin is the easiest with bubbles

the party goes on for nights
the days are short
the long nights
are wrong lights to a
decision made by fools with wine glasses
on top of broken televisions

she complains and talks of leaving relinquishing her duties to me
I'd be a full time nanny
with nothing
a slave
and a decent man
of the night where the long wash board
and dishes would pile
and my old heart tickers with fury
over the keyboards
and I still, like a caveman, write longhand

the lonely night of my love
is over and I'm left with a bitter
twinge of aspiration
to keep the gas pedal compressed down\until the
root of disaster fades

or the heaven's open and I pray
so loud the quieting souls repent
or God opens the clouds back and sends me his
son
the glory of his wrath subsided
into the rapture of the end

I go to the frig and
crack the 6th beer open
its time to finish this one.