i'd promised myself i'd lay off the vodka for a while
but if i consider the sum of contemporary deceit
my own lies are likely the least malicious of all.

though impulses come as a cresting urgency
a concerted inertia stays the hand and tongue.
days go by like this, and i ask through teeth
what the hell did you expect?

though it leaves its share of rubbish
the circus of foreign ambition never leaves town.

i don't think i've ever been this prolific in my 11 years on this site.
in any other context, the passing quips and honest echoes are a marginal benefit
to be weighed against the effort and disappointment that constitute cost.

as depression excises ambition and the personally meaningful joys from life
pissing garbage is about as much as i care to try anymore.
that i feel alone in the honesty of disclosure
has bred an unsubtle contempt suggesting that this vacation be a statement.

are you ever curious what has become of those artists who disappear without notice?
whether they have moved on and changed their hobbies
or become overwhelmed by their jobs
or a newfound family
or their own literal death?

occasionally i am.

when it's the thought that counts
pick a pointy rock

at times like these, it's hard to see.
do you remember?
do you regret?
is there anything left to be said?

always and forever, it will be as it has been.
shedding anger and beheld by the dark fever of rum in excess,
my passion, my fingers have only a trigger to tease.

ambivalence and its deep grin borne of alcohol
are cursed by lucidity and all prevailing externalities,
always and forever.

from within the illusion
this moment is immune
it retreats into the past, immutable forever
tomorrow and all its kings are another time