October 2, 2009


by Alan Catlin

Thirty years of hard drinking
and all I have to show for it
is a beer belly so large
you could out a spigot in it
and draw some decent draught beer

a pay-by-the-week
transient hotel room
even the roaches wouldn't
stay overnight in

a dumpster load of glass
bottles and empty cans

torn clothes so stained and filthy
even the bums wouldn't pull
them from the trash on
the coldest night of the year

these open wounds where my
vital organs should be

Promethean love dogs from hell
feasting on my innards
my pale misbegotten flesh

I'm so shit out of luck these days
I expect these damned harpies will
want to fuck me in the eyes
before I die.


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