Requiem For Dead Alcoholic - Vic Gamble

With head well rigged
from bar port calls
he stumbles into yet another,
supping dregs of drams
and shit-faced flagons,
gormless in his gossamer,
a freebooter without plans.
And when they tired of him
they threw him out
into the sick-bay of the gutter,
where he churned and choked
in his own choice of vomit
and a slurred blasphemy
of mutter.

In the sweet bloom of morning,
while there was still a lacehole sky,
the cop turned him
with his bully stick;
his dead mouth open like a yawn
and a counterblast of emptiness
entreated in his eyes.
And nailed, like blue tattoo
the last words of his life
hung infinite in the air,
“Fuck it, Jesus, fuck it”.

It was as if
a beggar had been there.

Vic Gamble