Join me in this boat of drunkenness, 
Come with me and we shall both be drunk. 
Let's sway beside what we think ourselves, 
Swerving as the waves swell beneath us; 
Lifting us to where lonely sounds warp, 
While many other things become clear. 


Come upon my mind, your tongue in mine, 
And utter words that rend this turmoil; 
The sound of madness not to be stilled, 
Our silent voices, ...

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We know it will kill us,

But we do it anyway.

Huddled together,

Like this.

In this place of ill repute.

The townsfolk think poorly of us.

But I am sure

Someone in here,

Has read Rimbaud.

Written poetry,

Dreamt of Dante.

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The lindens are lining the promenade

how we wish we were seventeen again

their branches arching ever skyward 

framing Vincent's starry manifold

swallowing every thought and sound

each caveat, each dolce far niente

now fading and then pulsing with the

rising and ebbing of rhythmic tides 

how serious this business of life is;

our limbs intertwine as we scramble

shaking ...

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