Sir Real

I don't know, a poem about insanity?

Sitting here, staring at the ceiling fan
spinning and spinning and
grinning as my sanity is slipping
from my hands
and floating from the fingertips
too occupied with gripping this
flask that tempts my lips.

But I cannot take a sip just yet.
Instead I let the vapors dance
up through my nose and to my brain locked
in this nightmarish trance.

Now walls whisper invective as they
shout from a faceless mouth.
Burning my skin with 80-proof acidic spit.

Lest I resist.

But the bottle sings a song like a siren
and it tempts me, “tip me back and swallow
‘til the both of us are empty.”

Sing to me.

“I promise I will
make you smile, I will
make you rise like
the little pockets of carbon dioxide
that race to the surface
and break from their captor.”

But precious bottle, can you fly?

Save your silver-solvent,
throw a fit and overflow
the sun-soaked pavement
three stories below
looks thirstier than I.

And don’t strike anybody else on your way down.