bits of gin label salamander in
a Chinese screen minding their British sides.
I shouldn’t exist, or be alive. I fight
humor in my shot glass, my bitter pail.
I’m half corpse, complaint-filled, divorcing
emptiness shaped by a chilled rasp.
I make a living in alcoholic
forgetting. Body poured in pale swigs,
inescapable, but not whimpering.
from Guest Poet #1: Andrew Demcak
Click here to read Andrew's first draft.