Lora Bishop
The God with the Smoking Gun
Disaster from sheer start!
I had drunk our weights combined,
Now just a pathetic black-clad totem,
Stretched out, inebriated
Along the cat sleek bar side.
It’s genetic I feel compelled to cry -
My father drank his death,
And I’m cut with the same knife.
The man behind the counter
Bestows me with a pity drink to lap at
As a tear rolls drunkenly of f my nose
And drops shiny as a guillotine blade
Onto my throat below.
And I’ll not soon forget his knowing look.
I knew you’d not be long of this light land
His Satan lit eyes seemed to imply.
Page(s) 154
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