Word of Mouth

I wrote this at two in the morning at my sister's house. Yeah. :D


That boy had a face like a bar fight;
purple and blue fist-depressions in his cheekbones,
slits in his lips like lines in a tree;
cuts like notches in a stick:
counting down time left, time wasted,
and all the times he's woken up with a murderous headache.
There's something sticky on his chin [probably gin]
where a beard should be,
but he's much too young, much too innocent
to have one,
even though he spends his nights "out-on-the-town",
pretending he's tough and mysterious and handsome,
buying lap dances with money reserved for booze.
You can see him begging on the street for a sip of something [anything]
at the first break of twilight,
groveling in front of complete strangers, face full of blood and mud,
because, oh look, his hands are quaking with seismic activity
and he's sinking like the Titanic (head-first into the gutter.)
Ain't withdrawal a bitch?

Once upon a time,
he started this as a way of searching,
though he forgot what it was he was looking for
after that first morning he woke up
with his chin on the toilet and drool dangling:
green and smelling of prostitute.
Now he just goes for the familiarity;
the numbing of everything as the world undulates
like a roller coaster falling off its tracks,
the flash-flicker of feeling deep in his loins
as a girl winks from across the room.
"Hey, hooooooney. Fancy meetin' you here."
There's a bruise above his left eye,
two permanent dark circles:
a five-fingered tattoo of shame.
Rejection painted black-and-blue across his cheek.

He watches the universe flit past without him, as he sits:
perched on his stool in the corner, hunkered down over
his last cup of scotch. If you kissed him, he would taste like bitterness, and
rancid mouthwash, and hogwash. When he's hammered, he's on the ground, girl,
so you better hail a cab, or just leave him;
he won't remember you anyways.

A shadow passes over his eyes sometimes,
when he's halfway through his third drink
and the buzz of conversation is morphing to
the slow purl of a river;
faces rippling pale and blue.
He's washed up and singing his little chantey,
an arm around Buttercup or perhaps Daisy,
and he catches a glimpse of his face
all bloodied and notched like a burn-victim.

In the reflection of a shot glass,
he watches his life flee from him
like car headlights flitting over a window:
blink, and you just might catch a glimmer
behind your eyelashes.