On The Rocks

April 7 2015

When a marriage

is on the rocks,

foundered, faltered, lost.

Or single malt

drowning in Scotch.

A barren outcrop, in a solitary sea,

where surf breaks

and birds drop

and the guano piles higher

until you’re ass-deep into it,

shoveling shit

to the lawyers, the cops

the other woman.

Remember when ice

spelled out S-E-X?

Coca-Cola, overflowing

a frosted glass

fizzing over cubes.

Subliminal, they called it,

but it wasn’t true.

Goes to prove

that the eye of the beholder

sees what it wants.

Absent mother.

Virago, harlot, whore.

Satyrist, lover

deadbeat dad.

But not lovers, exactly,

too middle class.

A drunken tumbler

in a cold sweat,

lips wetted, teeth clenched.

Ice crushed

hit me again.

Rum punched, boot-legged

dashed against.

Because the higher the proof

the more-and-more fluid

the truth gets.

I came across the expression "on the rocks". It was in the context of reading about rich entitled people on a country estate. I immediately had an image of gracious living, brittle elegance, and the secrets hidden behind wrought iron gates and manicured gardens; what isn't seen behind closed doors and high walls. I thought how human misery is the great equalizer: money buys a lot; but never happiness. (A nice earnest cliché. Except I have to admit, money helps. Or at least its absence doesn't!)

So in this frame of mind, this poem poured out in a stream of consciousness. Who knows in what distant watershed these streams arise, since this not at all my usual style, and certainly not autobiographical. But it was fun to write, and I quite like the result. I should try this more often!