aphorism at two in the morning

by Steven J. Serafiani

Corpses belong in a morgue, not walking around in bars
giving eyes to a cracker jack prize.
Hey barkeep!
this drink is for the blonde in the white sheet,
tell her it’s from the guy on the respirator,
this should be a match made in heaven,

find a vein sweetheart and hook me up,
I’ve got a few hours and
I’ve got the loyalty to let it drip,
I’m a merchant in this territory,
pushing chemicals and compounds,
the kind that induce an attraction of impulse,
of gin with a devilish grin,
sporting shades of grace
with loose lips
and a suitcase of sin,

we are immigrants of the invisible,
the huddled masses drawn to dark dens like bugs to bright lights,
I’m buzzing towards your strands of smoke and blue lips,

if it’s all the same,
can we wake up burned and unidentifiable?