a poem by Paul Hellweg (1 of 2)
one week without a drink and
I don't like what I'm becoming. Complacent.
No more all-night restlessness, no more despair,
no more anxiety attacks.
With apologies to Stephen King,
there's more horror in that one word
than in all his novels. Caffeine-induced visions
of nubile poetesses quicken my pulse as heart
yearns for Dragon's Blood and frolicking fairies,
especially the one clad in green,
nipples dripping 150-proof alcohol
the milk of creativity
sweet, addictive, life-sustaining.