morbid

Badge-Men

I’ll raise that single sleeve again, soaked in the
taste and stink of my whiskey and gin,
And stagger out into the copses of
honeysuckle and rosebushes
To vomit.

Never stray too far from the track though, no
matter how far from sober I may feel I
am. Because, armed with bronze and brass
badge in hand, my favourite party-crasher
will find my misfortune in all its glory.

Tell him nothing, give him only head-
shakes and lies. Because,
If after tonight, I was sent back where I just
emerged from, I’d have more to fear than just that
bronze and brass he holds up.

You must listen to me. Because
with that small item sitting in his palm,
He is all-powerful. May it say his
name or his number, it does not matter. His
badge is plain death for us, straight and true.

Where should we run to, to drink next?
Hush-hush tavern or head-shake house of
sins? I’ll add an extra to your drink tonight, just
to see how you are. Just to make sure I can
push you to the badge-man and run.

I am not a loyal companion when raised
up behind the bar. Because, like any good
enemy would, I’d consider myself before I’d
ever think of you. But don’t worry.
We’re friends now.

Laid down as your eyes begin to turn
fuzzy, I ask the nearest playgirl to help me
lift you. I’ll play the role of your concerned
and anxious best friend. Too tied up in my
own worry to wonder if my arms will break.

Her strength is a minor addition and I push you
at the feet of the awaiting badge-man who,
As I said he would,
Lifts from his pocket his accursed bronze
and brass. So I push and run. Push and run.

In due time, I’ll receive a call from you when
I’m out of breath and out of money,
Curled up in some copse somewhere as
I struggle not to let my unconsciousness
become flat and miserable death.

The true me has appeared. I would not
blame you for being scared. I told you the
very first time we met. Rub your back
I never did, lift you free of the fence I
never did. So maybe it was there all along.

Bloody me and bloody trust, I hear
your voice from down the line already. I am
no longer struck by ethanol, that passed a
while ago. So I lie on my side with hardly
the strength to keep your voice in my ear.

Field after field they search for me. The
scary badge-men and accomplices. To think that
the people I sacrificed you to to save myself from
would be the ones I wish I could cry for
as I lie in my own vomit. Dying.

 

 

Thanks, Levi.

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