Blue flames lick
the copper-bottomed pan.

Inside, hot milk rises,
underneath a white, foamy tarp.

A whoosh and frothy surge of
swollen milk cascades down steel sides.

Blue flames
turn red and extinguish.

Gas and acrid vapour mingle,
a beach of volcanic ash cools.

last year's hangover
Morning Star blind
without the ride
of imbibing libations

words bled dry
in powdered thought
desiccated emotion
won't rehydrate unsalted
and I just ain't in the mood

shoulda had that drink
winning every battle
lost in war I can't see
but scars burn deep
courting failure
with fear

why fight fate
in altered perceptions
that are all real enough
to feel
in a world where the
only thing concrete
is thought...

bled dry
in last year's hangover