a redo playing with alternatives

pockets held agape by the guzzler
of all things grape
but not exclusively
the grapes; broad tastes

his thirst, including of nights powerful
in a peach’s fermented proof
and careless whether or not these
will stay forever naked
in light such a wish
thirsts for and include the lusting gullet;

appetite destined to persist
short of sating; yet the yearn,
the greed, foams, thrashes,
cursed in strain; gnash
about the satiation lack exceeds simple
scent for a purse

bulging pennies; touching tender
but tender other nether withers, this too
obvious to bother with
a concession though to run
one of those like by the sea, no
sweat in that case to sort

ripe from too brown or
blue all on the feet for twelve
stuffed hours because pills meandering
from the shop
of mellow and sugar,
going by a tickle, would hang

the branch from whichever hand for daily
dosage dispensation and go away
with dimples stamped fresh
between shoulder blades
and the ink running all over, ink
that just mumbles and exacts

retribution as at the stand
a puddle rises to the ankles
and the meat chops quick
thanks to the shudder
living in the spine
and is hypersensitive, but

this is no seaside
concession stand; this
is only a concrete
perch but they keep the lights
on tap and the taxis
curse and dogs
adjust to freedom
while learning to give birth
to new eyes that will reside in
the back rooms of their skulls.

More liquor ought to be blue or bluer.
More blue ought to be ether for glass
or eye or tongue or country juices
like the lemon or the orange or even leaves
becoming a tea. Mesh. Mesh never
stales. And someone should figure out
how to turn a sea into
scotch on the rocks.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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