Finger on the bottle edge
Circles, tracing countours round,
Curves like a woman; in then out
Twice again and indecisive,
Label peeling off like skin.
Sometimes a little venom,
A little toxic persuation,
A little dutch courage to fight away the fear,
Sometimes a little killing liquid,
Just a little, enough to tickle,
Numbs the pain
Numbs the pain.
Wet the fingers
Cracked glass dripping the analgesic
Nothing better to keep the calm in
Keep the precious, thoughtless dreams in.
Never had a woman that wasn't green
Brown or sometimes clear
Never found that buxom hourglass
Outside distorted hand blown vases
Full to the brim with limpid sleep.
Sluggish veins that pulse with blood
Embraced by crystal death
Clear as water or robust red
Or gentle gold
Or for the greatest internal murders
I slip my lips around green the colour of death.
Sometimes a little poison,
A little burning desire,
A little fiery liquid burns away the fear,
Sometimes a little bottled death,
Just a little, enough to throttle,
Kills the pain
Kills the pain.
(I'd like to point out that when I wrote this I was 15 and didn't/still don't drink.)
