Despair the brush paints blue back, erased lines, a sable-stroke sun through the clouds, a hair, disabling a hush around a rant least laced with Lacey. Fine, fine, I’ll remember it differently in time but wish I were able, a clock face, a shitface, a punch in the face. Hushed faces watching railing in the cups of a grand old time. Another bottle Mabel, if you’re able.
Working softly now, the lines define a moat space and again trace the crossing of the sun sprinkling creases and worn weather laughterlines. The bruises faded, lost in time. A new generation of lush loud and brash and beautiful, a new race. And race they do, bottles in hand, through the harbor, down to a boat.
A boat that brings us literally to you. A slash of a forearm, the rare whim of moment in the heat where it all feels too much. And you call for another drink, a last bottle before the world starts to swim.