Drunk Like a River in Flood

Swelling my banks,

perturbedly turgid,

effervescently carbo-

nated, almost,

(or perhaps it’s entire…

depending on who

&/or what you believe,

with their reason…)

Swollen, in flow,

a thundering racket,

flotsam and jetsam

I wail at the bends.

A “bender” they call it.

I’m here, all the while

passing through. 

Drenched (or “besotted”) –

the rain.

I am home

and I’m rushing

to-ward and away,

instinct with desire,

for which fire

is no  match,

only patience…

I’m a patient

and ill to the bones…

you will see.

But I gurgle

these songs

as I pass..

filled with belches

and farts,

it’s unseemly…

Drunk

like a river

in flood

[too apparent] –

here’s

where the poem

begins

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10 thoughts on “Drunk Like a River in Flood

  1. niasunset

    “….Drunk
    like a river
    in flood
    [too apparent] –
    here’s
    where the poem
    begins….”

    words, your poetical and philosophical words, are so beautiful. Especially the ending part fascinated me. Always hits me your writing… Thank you dear N Filbert, Love, nia

  2. A reconstruction around your amper sand gives this river a shore at which it doesn’t lap, but spumes. I can hear it hissing like the snake that it is. It’s not a river in which the beflowered Ophelia would have been caught dead, singing ‘flotsam and jetsam’ while she rounded her bend. Its urges may be primitive, but its no pre-Raphaelite.

"A word is a bridge thrown between myself and an other - a territory shared by both" - M. Bakhtin

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