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Last Orders, Please.

The kidneys, hunkered within lie slumped over one another, all ‘Woe is me’, arching their sepia sickening backs and weeping, despite the dusky liver, in truth, having far more to berate itself for; yet, after every single malt binge of dutiful 45 proof, from eager early evening through the fatted depths of night, past dawn flashing her tawdry wares till 10am on the screaming blind dot, up, up it crawls, the ignoble jecur — bruised, battered, sometimes (by the Gods) actually fucking bleeding — rising, elevated to its fullest height staring sclerosis dead, I say point-blank dead in the eye, staggering swagger in tow . . . then on it carries, shadow boxing mortality, giving not one shiny, solitary shit about tomorrow’s dissed grace.

Hero of the hour.

Last orders, please.


(This is an ode from the body to the brain after taking notes upon its experience of solid boozing. There is swearing involved, *but I can’t censor organs.) 



**falls about*.