Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

Some nights are like this.
Full of woeful sweat and noxious, foul body.

Spirits hang stale at the bottom of the bottle.
Arrogance tied with apathy.

A jigger of remorse.
A pony of wallow.

Stir.
Shake.
Mull.
Swill.

I didn't know what else to say.
Things had gone cloudy.
Milky like cataracts and cream seperated at the bottom.

The waking throb behind eyes
the lone embarrassment of knowing.

Hands slap on the table.
And I'm left hanging.

You're not at a bar.
You're not wearing pants
but there is no last call.

Take the good with the bad
and dream sweetly of pride
wholeness
and errant bottles lobbed carelessly into the fire.