A coat of petty words, so finely groomed and worn,
against the thick november fog, walking the road torn
tentatively by forgotten anniversaries and tartar sauce.
My god, Bourbon, you're a fine-toothed, shark-toothed comb
circling down the drain, a yellow submersible
of pureblood grain
Burning in an engine with two gears; vanilla and plain. Reheated pain,
Cacaphonous ringing in my head, you're a mocking, spinning stucco ceiling.
Why do I write about you so often, and the many masks you wear?
because, unlike the muse you can pin down like entomology
this butterfly can't even fucking compare.
There's books, pages of things like you,
but all are just dreamcatchers and the chase
of tonight's numb childhood fare, so sickly sweet
itching memories, wrist's-length, well-read against my face.
There are so many pages describing you, or close to you
but none are the same.