Warm Wine, Salty Air

Deep red, short and blue

It trickles from my glass

Makes a definite impression

until I decide to catch my breath

and take another drink

But you know it can be hard to classify

As in the end it may all come down

to the tastiness of the ripened grape

But I try not to think about it so much

Because it takes me on a trip

Over the clouds and across the sky,

the bittersweet ambience allows me

to feel the flood of crimson blood

running through my veins

Because I'm sorry to say that I could never

live a sober life

And I cannot ever begin to think about

how ordinary people do it anyway

Thoughts are what you make of them

And it may be one way that we can begin

to exercise one form of perilous control

But I have never been one to understand

how anyone can tolerate boredom

It is treacherous

And I don't want it

No siree!

So I decide to gulp my wine

In this particular case, I believe it is a Crimean kind

In a dark, dank cellar

I recover from sensory deprivation

So I turn my thoughts, twist them round

and connect them to some kind of tawdry pleasure

Because isn't that what the life of an adventurous gentleman

may eventually come to be

I say nomadic pleasure is where it's at

So whether I'm thinking of Sofia

Or toking on a Turkish cigarette

free flowing blood feels warm as it streams upon my wrist

But the coming of the razor is what I always like to remember

Oh it stings like a bitch when the train has left the station

Just before the break of dawn

But when I look,

I can't see anything

And the tears can't stop me from crying,

as I stick my finger upward upon the blood on a filthy east bound track

But thing's could definitely be worse

I could be dripping on my mother's carpet

Thinking about my mother's funeral or my father's weary voice

But I never knew them all the same

Just a temporary substitute to ease the harrowing pain

But it might be better to pour another glass

to help me travel round the room

My waitress has D-Cups and a foreign tongue

Her hair is gold and her skin is white

She seems to have something upon her face

but at this point I don't know exactly what it is

All I can say is that it appears that she likes to bend over

So do you think it's fair to say that she might be waiting for another tip?

Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heaven's: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com

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