Bitter Tastes

Salt is the taste

upon my liar’s tongue–

the bitter-bitter of indecision

where ebon seagulls will not fly.

Charon–I should say he waits–

but the feathers drift

to bubbled life

the world twisted overhead

no hands to the flotsam

brighter lips once cast.

They always said to take my jacket

yet still ensconced

I never saw the need,

never saw the waves that bore me down

into the drink, the horror

dive into the inky loan.

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9 thoughts on “Bitter Tastes

  1. Those ending lines are terrific, Chris–the play on lone, and drink, especially–and throughout a cadre of slightly misted metaphors requiring the brush of the reader’s mind to see the embossing. Liked it very much indeed.

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