Suicide Was On His Lips...

An Agonised Fearfully Tense Mask, Burnt Scarlet With Drunkardness

Wormed With Veins.

Ungainly He Bounced Before Me When Christmas Was In Embryo, Militant Stepping Of Elastic Legs, Wishing To Be Blatant.

His Near-Toppled Form, (Not New) But Infamous At Parties Where He Throttled The Idiom Of Humour With Infantile Bellows For The Fumed Lip Of Any Murderous Bottle, Now Stumbling Homewards, With The Recluse's Fear Ringed In His Eyes, He Disappeared From Sight Like A Weasel, Solitary Escaper Bound For His Den.

Would His Unweanable Lips Be Appeased By The Maternal Lip-Nipple Of The Torsoed Bottle, Or Was A Grave-Digger A Friend Only? A Sadomasochistic Relique, With A Hopeless Fever For Existence He Forged On Erringly To His Liquor Bier That Seemed To Bubble : Imminent, :