I am moonshine - drink me down
with eyes blind and throat aflame.
Indulge in my war gin skin.
I leave you pulsing,
convulsing on the floor
body thirsting for just
one drop more, while you
slowly descend into the madness
of men inflicted with liquid
cancer.  In sun baked villages
we run our trade, raking the
moon for all its distilled whiskey
gloom. We of the clandestine
stir steaming cauldrons of bubbling poison
to be drank at the speakeasies
but our drinkers don’t speak easy.
They slur their words slow and long
as they sip from the flask concealed.
To blurred vision and heavy limbs
they yield. I wash past their lips and
leave their mouths dry, swim
with the blood through their veins.
I am spirit, drunk to console
but amidst my dutch courage
you’ll never find soul.

This was posted 1 year ago and has 141 notes.

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