Everyone knows that most great poets were also very good drinkers. So it is high time to share some of their creations. From time to time we’ll bring you poems on drinking, odes to booze and adventures under intoxication. This time we bring you one with the catchy title Vodka. No wonder this creation by Joel Brouwer is about the crystal clear delight from Russia.
Vodka (Joel Brouwer)
The Stoli bottle’s frost melts to brilliance where I press my fingers.
Evidence. Proof I’m here, drunk in your lamplit kitchen, breathing up your rented air, no intention of leaving.
Our lust squats blunt as a brick on the table between us.
We’re low on vocabulary. We’re vodkaquiet. Vodkadeliquescent.
Vodka doesn’t like theatrics: it walks into your midnight bedroom already naked, slips in beside you, takes your shoulders in its icy hands and shoves.
Is that a burglar at the window? No, he lives with me, actually.
Well, let him in for Christ’s sake, let’s actually get this over with.