itch/drink/king

little, little creepy things on my mind
do nothing but make my brain itch
and so goes the last drop of whisky
in the bottle
with a bang!
and with a pang
of pain too, which is probably unavoidable
when you are drinking with a thin king:
he knows;
he watches;
he's been there (and here too) before.

and the itching continues relentlessly,
leaving tiny remindy rashes after them
as the hand of my heart grapples in the dark
to relieve the pain.

the king looks at me knowingly and i can do nothing
but just rotate my dilated pupils aimlessly
in my coarse sockets of eye and i! for the hundreth time!
declare my loyalty.

i'll drink with you, king,
i'll drink with you
as long as i forget about
the fish, the cat, the fight
and
yes,
those thingies
thingies with teeth!

a real poem

with mode
with note
with soot
with doubt

with rhyme
with teeth
with lies
with deed

with some
with me
with one
with thee!