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At the Scroungers Lounge
Melanize stigmas of the aftermath.
Yes, the morning after.
A painful movement — there's more.
Jump up!
Your brain screams!
They are more...
They are less...
They cannot be judged.
Not by you, or me!
Now, they crawl through vineyards.
The lips are cracked and dry.
Long tongues slide and slurp into expelled bottles.
Hands empty.
Except for axes.
Cut down the vines.
Tare roots from the earth.
Released roots from loose immoral soil.
Earth and sky are tinted in sedate purple plumes.
Not the usual fireworks.
Bare wires crackle in the mind.
Bright purple flashes.
Dark. Light. Dark.
Light, Dark, Light.
All eyes closed.
Blinded by flashes.
Afflicting deeds, equal to any eye.
Equal in the purple mist.
Too hard to pick only the best of the vine.
So hard before unquenchable thirst.
Betrayed by each.
Carry those baskets full of the harvest.
Carry them back to the presses and squeeze out each drop.
Ferment those fluids into its sickening sweet nectar.
To be shared by all suspects, by all of those performers for the vine.
On stage.
On the floor.
At the Scroungers Lounge.
Oh gosh I have a glass of red wine in my hand lol, this is perfect, it high lights the evils we can stoop to whilst under the influence...modesty hits the floor like ones knickers....I think this is an excellent piece of writing it moved me, but not enough to pour my wine down the sink
xxxx