Fermentation
Fermentation
Rumpled like a ceiling mirror
Staring at an unmade bed,
Like burned tyres of a revolution,
Like a beach without sand,
A wood pecker without a beak,
Like a baby born with a cord around his neck.
Marks of birth etched all over me,
I feel the sugar oozing,
I taste the sour,
Having turned.
We didn’t wake up to find the lights out:
Screws slowly undone with every fight,
I hate you and forgive you then hope.
But it wasn’t wine brewing.
The kisses that flew out the window,
Every morning as you returned with a whiff of her.
My love sinking six feet every night,
As I clutched at lonely pillows,
While you sank into her,
Behind conference room doors
In meetings that never were.
I feel fermented
And it taste like hate from 1939,
Brewed in my soul through a love glycolysis.
My veins filled with ethanol and alcohol,
Inebriated with pain and I drink,
From this glass of sorrow,
In memory of your past.
Celebrating your death,
The last time you tasted of her sugar
While I drenched in this lactic acid.
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