(Inspired yet again by the amazing work of my friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks)
The Hangover Continues
This is no cinematic experience. This
is not the morning after. There is no
pill to rid us of our pregnant horror.
These jokes sour in our mouths.
We’ve already missed the party and still
the vomiting goes on. Still the nausea
without relief and every pill to calm
is yet another emetic. Every treatment turns
to the oil of serpents. A stinging unguent
of reptiles squirms in the bottle.
Every one proves to be the cheapest
rotgutmoonshine with a handful of
healing botanicals tossed in as an
afterthought to cover the burning
of the grains, the torching of the crops.
The fire on the corn transforms the heat
and sweat into blood and fire fed back
and fed up and poured down gullets
too slack to gag, too full to feel feedback
from the feed bag gulleys until the streets
run red and blue and black and still the
vomiting goes on, still the hangover proves
incurable, still the hangover hangs over
and over and over again and still hopes
dangle like clouds of cotton candy for
monkeys struck dumb and stuck in cages
for another round, another spin another
spill upon the pavement and it doesn’t
matter how many times you stick your
finger down your throat there is always
more to come up. The i.v. is still in the vein.
The feeding tube comes in the back door.
The surge is ass-backwards and the purge
is impossible. The source is a spring of sour
fluids. The water table is set. The setting’s on
spin and the spit itself is spat upon.