Fermentation

Fermentation Rumpled like a ceiling mirror Staring at an unmade bed, Like burned tyres of a revolution, Like a beach without sand, A wood pecker without a beak, Like a baby born with a cord around his neck. Marks of birth etched all over me, I feel the sugar oozing, I taste the sour, Having turned. We didn’t wake up to find the lights out: Screws slowly undone with every fight, I hate you and forgive you then hope. But it wasn’t wine brewing. The kisses that flew out the window, Every morning as you returned with a whiff of her. My love sinking six feet every night, As I clutched at lonely pillows, While you sank into her, Behind conference room doors In meetings that never were. I feel fermented And it taste like hate from 1939, Brewed in my soul through a love glycolysis. My veins filled with ethanol and alcohol, Inebriated with pain and I drink, From this glass of sorrow, In memory of your past. Celebrating your death, The last time you tasted of her sugar While I drenched in this lactic acid.