Bleak Nights in the Gutter

“you’ll never find love for you can’t love,”
she told me as we sat by the port, guzzling
wine and bourbon and staring at the open sea.

I didn’t even look at her; she was right.
like for Dylan, everything’s a story,
the words is ALL that matters.

spent too many nights locked inside
absolute darkness, swilling wine and bourbon,
smoking blunts and snorting blow trying to
capture the abysmal essence I discovered twice
in the spike.

“will you ever love me?” she asked.
“never,” I replied, then drained the Wild Turkey. the warmth
overwhelmed me, swarm my perishing soul.

she scoffed but
held my hand tight, as if afraid
I’d jump into the frozen black sea.

I thought about it, more than once, during
suicidal mornings of cheap rock; never had the balls,
always believed I’d find a more elaborate, and original,
way out; blowing your head off has become dull
after Hem and Hunter did it.

a small town without light
pollution and the mocking stars were
gazing down upon us with their stupid smile,

as she leaned forth and her hot red lips touched my bearded cheek;
I did not turn, couldn’t face her. was meandering back
to other times when I’d shared the spot on
the port with others,
drinking and watching the cargo ships come and go, and the
sailors heading for the old bar where I once could get
free drinks and was sleeping with one of the resident whores.

I remember and the nights turn bleak; bourbon
in the blood, keeping the mind awake and working, erasing
the harsh realizations dawning upon me every waking moment as I
peregrinate the dark alleys, tired of the same old
charade, unwilling to bake n’ shake any longer,
no point in anything.

she once more said:
“why?”
a horrendous word
resounding in my head ever since I turned 15; I had no
clue what she meant; why? had
an altogether different meaning in my whirling mind,
my blurry thoughts. a fish leaped out of the dark water
catching air, maybe an unlucky fly,

and then dived back in with no fanfare.

her lips were on mine, in her eyes
I saw no soul, no flame, nothing but
a passion incomprehensible, the same old desire and false belief
I’ll one day change and love.

she was proven right. I cannot love.
it’s alright. I stopped caring when
Emily was buried. ever since,

I stuck with the page. worse heartache,
tremendous pain, but
one I shall coexist with until the day I
figure out the glorious way out and step over the
Edge.

the Wild Turkey in my head compels me to
back away again; few more lines to scribble, more
glasses to empty, dead love to remember.