301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


their tossing ships

on this more traditional view, the self was to be

regarded as an enormous whisky vat, in which

experiences fermented quietly

until they were mellow and mature.

–Terry Eagleton, How to Read a Poem



the miraculous alcoholics capture and tap the enormous whisky vat

of the self, their dilated blood vessels, their staggering gait.

evading the brightwork, leaping athwartships,

their revelry, loutish yet stalwart, plaits

tradition with dangerous irrationality,

that reckless sedan of a catamaran

named the death of man. It’s true

pilots absorb booze more rapidly

at high altitudes, their livers tall castles

of milkthistle, but goats and louts half

sunk in stouts and moats,

peering out english murder holes

to shout, who knows where

there’s beer, or filled to

the brim with toasts,

might be true poet poltroons,

sloshed neptunes, tridentless,

allowing our subterranean,

previously-unheard-of selves

fluency, music, crisp exactitudes.

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