another drinking night

commences and only
the poem flies through
the fingers. stories, novels,
plays, they remain stranded
on an island engirdled by sharks the
size of tankers. it’s alright, I
drink, recapturing the essence
of my soul which
I almost lost over a love not
worth a nickel.and only the poem
comes easy to the fingers.
nothing else,
stories, novels, plays,
they remain far away,
stranded in an island
i cannot reach
'cause it's too far off from the shore
to swim to.
it's alright,
i drink,
slowly i recapture the essence of my soul
which i almost lost
for a love that wasn't worth a nickel. another
fifth drained, one more
bottom reached; it didn’t
contain the coveted answers, the
search continues. new fifth
cracked, a mix of junk and blow
shot into
the arm. not even strong
speedballs can
kill me. no one else
is around, all alone on a Saturday
night, it feels supernal. exhausted of
meaningless company, unwilling to
indulge in conversations that lead
nowhere. another gulp, another
shot, still alive. I lock door and windows, embracing
the imposing darkness. I see
my grave overlooking
a ravaged shore, a turtle comes to take
a piss on it. substances rush through my blood, destroying
a heart that died years ago. I broke
someone’s heart two days
ago; it’s alright, as long
as I drink. my wrongdoings turn into
blurry, insignificant
images. I disappointed yet
another person, a speedball injected
in the artery kills the guilt, turns remorse
into an alien emotion for lesser creatures. my muse
abandoned me, all the
inspiration I’ve left comes from
the sharp, dirty needle.