forsaken cataleptic quid

I'm nervous
there is too much silverware
in the drafting room
and the attic is stuffed with old canvases
painted by some madwoman
who I met in Los Angeles
that has since turned to drugs
to escape that miserable flight
into sober matters
that cannot be controlled
nor conveyed
but with sobbing

My liver got the worst of it
after three months of harsh winter
trying to forget those places
where they stuff people into boarding halls
and expect them to smile
for the sake of manufactured consent forms
swirled in at those moments of crises
when the madness of folks
intervenes in the life of an individual

I got a fifth of vodka here somewhere
and I'm wondering now if this is that water
I was promised in that prison
where the birds would come around
in fey slips of spent fabric
during those long waiting visiting hours

But unlike water
it moves
through an ocean of silver
where we relapse into nonsense
and hugging the gutters
for fear of someone's child
beginning another nuclear war
spread out across the Pacific
but congealed in press releases.

I could fill in the doubt
but I have vapor songs to drink
from the tortured sky's morrow
in the sorrow of those vagrants
that passed like Poe
through out the oblivion of cobbled street corners
after their wives and daughters had been sold
to some counter-estate at odds
with a slash of humanity
they once knew as children.

No I won't change my eyes