Two ships have passed by me,

Each in permanent enmity

Towards one another,

But ravaging me as one.

Forced to embrace the neutral,

A pirate on the fringe of the monochrome.

I’m really high on this metaphor,

Bowed and bent to this impressive low,

Swinging on sine and his brother;

I’ll meet me in the middle,

If only for a brief harmonic moment.

Cup my hands to the fountain,

Steal a fresh breath of life.

Sucking on this bottle,

An infant on a malignant teat.

This bottle opens me without a sound,

Dances me to unknown rhythms,

Brewing inside me the fire of stupidity.

Swing dancing with A. and E.

Before they were shot from E’en.

My grateful epitaph:

Throwing ‘round this bottle

‘til this juice ferments to wine.