From a Wobbly Drunk to a Dynamo

And it was told, in secret,

once upon a time in the trenches,

so many like us, bled and died

and bleached and lived and wished

for beer, and wished for sex,

but only got shelled, until

the next men came, and died

in the pits, lost and covered in mud;


on that stage, once, in the night’s smear,

I took myself home without blinking,

I read out, cried out, and the girls

still thought I was skinny,

but I learned to tread water, like

my greatest relatives, sunken

and covered in shit, I took a drink

in the closet, and shattered a mirror;


I remembered then, when it was red wine,

and when it only took two, but I

always wished for more, even

after I’d fight with her, and cry

for her, nothing is reflexive about

being drunk, but it’s a ticket to

discovery, and an arrangement

taken out of order, for kindred men


stuck in dikers — I smell them burning,

and I see them coughing, but the booze

is for us, it’s the wound we have

and a blinking light, I always reach

for it, even if it is too high, and I

will always take risks, for it’s the

same, whether you die in a foxhole,

or drown in brandy, home is home.

~ by Shawn M. Young on April 25, 2017.

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