All those years

of solitary confinement
inside a Gilbey's Gin
bottle were crawling out
of her stammering lips
demanding a mercy drink
for a dying, lost soul.
She foresaw a bad journey
for me in my next
life if I didn't rescind
an absurd ultimatum
involving the withholding
of vital fluids for her
lips, poured out an endless
succession of invective
so vile, I was almost
impressed by the quantity
and sincerity of her angel
of death wrath. I suggested
a trip to the City Mission,
they specialized in lost
souls, although they frowned
on her holiest of waters.
"A good night sleep, a square
one or two and a hot shower
and you'll wake up refreshed as
a maiden."
"Don't bullshit me, I was
born drunk and violated
and I intend to die that way."
As if she had a choice,
I thought, handing her five
bucks on the sly, escorting
her to the door and pointing
to the Lamp Post bar just down
the block. "Do your worst."
I said, giving her a healthy
shove out onto the icy sidewalks
of hell.

by Alan Catlin