Sick and green and contained,
mangled arms, bloody pulp screaming,
intoxicating red spills and gushes.
The bottle's fallen-half asleep on it's side- the pouring subsides.
It's safe maybe- at least for the moment.
Half empty until one day something comes along and disturbs it...
Kicks it, shaking it up.
Or smashes it- breaks it, shattered into a thousand fragments...
buried under piles of shit.
It will run dry eventually... all the blood will pour out- all the poisons, the shame, the excruciating anguish that tears through my eardrums
Like a knife against my veins. It penetrates my throat, my heart, my navel, my brain: Disturbed?
A little!