Hair of the Dog

Blah blah April poems... With apologies to Peter Murphy... no intentional attachment to Bauhaus, though possibly a subconscious one since I used the word 'bereft' in yesterday's poem.

Hair of the Dog

Once a badge of honor

the quantities consumed

Taunt the face of death

Groaning sounds of horror

as sobriety renewed

with swollen head and vile breath

Cured by the container

consumption once resumed

just finish what was left


Now is just a marker

of footsteps to the tomb

that bed looking better, better, best

Age-filled muscle torpor

so long from the womb

much more gone than lies ahead

Death laughs at youthful swagger

dresses like a groom

and changes linens on the bed


A sip is now a dagger

a footstep into gloom

less pleasure greater dread

Habit loves to hover

and not vacate the room

Same pathways once again

So still it is I stagger

and still howl at the moon

still dog's hair 'til still end

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed