I used to write a lot of poetry as an angsty teenager growing up, a passion that's fizzled out or I've given up on. For all the crap out there, I can see why most decent prose writers don't give poetry the time of day. For me, however, it was what started me writing in the first place. Barrett-Browning was my first, I will never forget her. My tentative step from poetry to prose was partly sparked by reading a Kerouac mega-haiku secreted in the corner of an old bookstore followed shortly by a whirlwind re-read of 'On the Road.' Ginsberg made my heart explode and Keats made my knees weak with a voyeuristic patriotism for his motherland. Poetry was a haven for which I could be honest with myself and fob it off as metaphorical. I never claimed to be good, only inspired.

I wrote this on the 24th of December, 2005, five days before Jerkface and I decided to call our marriage quits. My last poem, unless my muse has taken 52 weeks maternity leave and forgot to let me know.


The Wench and the Drunk
by BourbonBird

weaving numb through the city streets
alone, i reek of bourbon and i'm dragging
my handbag along piss-stained walls
and tripping over the homeless
i feel so lonesome, i love and hate so much
that they cancel each other out into nothing
and i thumb through the calendar of life
desperate for something to cling to
but it slips right through my fingers
because it's so pretty to watch
my life spiralling out of control

slicing through the muggy evening air,
she screamed for me
i smelt acrid peddler and turned:

-- manifestation of hate frothing just behind my lips
close my eyes and pray to God
that this woman will push me over the edge
because i'm sick of keeping this inside me.
i am tired and wasted, the booze, a buffer
so i don't have to see what you've become
what i've become - because really,
we were nothing to start with, and we're nothing now
when we promised to build each other up
- i can't bring myself to look for any more -
content to wander and feel sorry for myself
because i'm a dropkick, a fucking chump
and you said you would love me
but it wasn't me, it was the story and the notion
i never asked to be saved, i just wanted to be --

ten times too small for her skin, a gift
she sagged and she swayed, cocky swagger
because she knew she was so damned ugly
that she could scare a sale out of me
i wanted to vomit all over her face
i would have done her a favour...
the wind knocked clear out of me
she thrust a saggy fistful of straws into my chest
the finer things in life - for me?
shoving a fist into my pocket, grateful, i fish for cash
she holds my arm and shakes her head,
toothless and gammy, i think it was a smile
(i wasn't too sure because i was pissed as a fart)
hugs me for an age - who IS this woman?
a selfless gift of two seconds shared,
the rage subsides for the swelling inside
and i haven't felt this gutless in years.


My oh my, how much can happen in less than a year...