Full moon (whiskey & wings)
Full moon and out of whiskey,
almost out of money
and half out of my mind,
I scribble notes;
my thoughts are drawn
in black and Sartre.
I can almost touch
the lady of the lake,
the woman of all lonely dreams,
sitting next to me
on her pale pedestal,
ordering Daiquiris like so many ships.
And she couldn’t care less
about another soaking wreck,
drawn in prying, floating eyes,
burying his face in whiskey
and cheap rhyme - and yet,
I could touch her,
almost touch her,
like a Michelangelo -
or a Madonna poster.
There is no sword,
no naked angel at the gate.
So I could touch her - I could fly,
but for a little whiskey
and some wings.
Full moon.