You do, you do

 

If you must fade in to the history
of yourself,
as a relapse,
or as Love,
or as rape,
or a lesser understanding
of manhood — then do so.

 

If you must digest everything —
every pebble under Palace Pier, drunk
and love-moaning.
Every rotation of your hips
on my boney, dying pelvis —
then do so.

 

Go loudly as a lout,
with drink in one hand,
some symbol thrown in to the
mix, of finger and fist,
giving it a
good one.
Strut your damned weapons
in to some oblivion of
lithium. I will always
be here —
A drunk in waiting

 

 

Mat Caron is an American poet living in Cambridge, UK. This is his first submission to anything.

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