or: Tired

A cheap whiskey for mixing
Rinses the mind out after
Rubbing all ten digits raw
Ev'ry finger tip pulsing
Against an inclined keyboard
Keys shadow'd by a darkness

But new channels have been hew'd
Flowing liquid won't settle
Above the eyes as it should
Won't submerge all kindly in
The night's consuming shadows 
Rounded keys too visible

Pours forth an endless flow forth
Pulse perhaps quickening now 
So ribs say but they're erring
In judgment for too distanced 
From the heart of the matter
A wetted throat knows better

Flow, flow, slow punching fingers
Rise rather than pouring forth 
Settling gently behind eyes
Pressing pressing down into 
Shadows floating around dark
Through a mind re-resisting 

Closing off channels although 
Seems that joints sinews fingers
Stiff slow and the words won't come
Swiftly as a pouring hand 
Topping off an empty glass
Beckoning so beckoning 

Tasteless like water cheap
As lapping from tap fingers
Slowly unclench 
Falling bottle cap or upward 
Clink shoulders weary 
is it... stopping?

Too long now to 
Think of words

5 thoughts on “or: Tired”

  1. Wow loved the flow in your words. So perfectly mastered. The thoughts behind a glass of wiskey. Simply enjoyed reading this poem. Keep blogging Friend ๐Ÿ™‚๐ŸŒธ

  2. A cheap whiskey for mixing
    Rinses the mind out after

    โ€”- I like this flow of consciousness, Ben.

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