Where a Buzz Goes to Die

A poem about drinking alcohol

Photo by Room 76 Photography

So he sucked on the double bock
Wanting to obliterate, 
Waiting for it to
Clean the slate,
Leaving his senses
Open to the
Wonderful sights and sounds
That only a nice buzz rides.

He half-reclined waiting for it
To clear his mind of its clutter
And the visions of sugar plums that
Danced in his head were soon
Whisked away to be replaced
By the brutal, harsh
Dry bones of life
Rattling in his brain;
Bones that jangled and tangled
Their way past his lips with the
Cacophony of sound 
Resounding off the walls.

With a mighty roar they clattered 
To the floor
Where he could see them
Writing out his life in the dust;
Swirling ever faster until
Breaking to pieces
They lay with their
Fragments quivering.

And he could only look at what
They had written and
Laugh like the maniac
He had become
Until the whole world receded
Into oblivion.