Christopher Hopkins writes

Live a life on a whisky heart

Kaleidoscope movements across acid cut glass.

Drinkers capsize in the finger dulled jars.

An educational refugee 

far from the love of home,

caught up, in a whirlpool's dragging spin.

All welcomed here,

Anonymous and known,

within this home, of brass stained freedoms.

Her smile, 

behind the zinc mile, 

is knowing and hopeful so.

The first all day directed to me,

and for once, 

I am not sunken away with my thumb flick evasion.

My comfort now,

is self induced and self contaminated.

I could live a life on a whiskey heart,

and call in sick

to the Monday mornings of responsibilities. 

To feel a little escape from this massing of days,

these black weather moods of nothings.

Oh too drink on, 

for an hour or two.

Caught in faux dreaming

of what I still regard home.

Left for progress, now so blush in mind.

That truer life, rejected by youth,

would so appease my fractured run, 

of all my nothings, of this modern bite.

Another whiskey clink.

The bitter peat sting.

Another, 

And one more.