Hiding your face with bristles: Is it the mottles you obscure Or the quiet tick of your hand Too unsteady to hold a razor, Too shaky to pen a sentence. When self-control fades into a Niggling voice in your ears And you wash it away with waters From the blushful Hippocrene Staining your pale lips carmine. If only to scribe a word In unfettered script Or drag that razor across Your face without bleeding drink; To speak and not slur. Would you exorcise all your comfort To gather up the shards of the lost? Would you sleep alone once more? Would you discard him forever: Your sweet lover named Tanqueray?
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