looking into a tilted half filled cup in the dark,

with your thumb and the index around the brim

qualifies so much for an eye from hades, I know

it tastes like sting, but something dreadful is staring

back at you from hades. boy, it's a trap and that's

the daemon from hades, waiting for you to empty

the content into your acrid stomach.

look at you, a cluster of disjointed phonemes, an "s"

to pluralize everything you are seeing, in this room.

coloured lights, laughing friends, you could be triple

your presence too but the prefix you left behind is still

trying to pull you together. mama has been kneeling 

before an altar, and your name has reached God's ears.

look at you, a disjointed ploy, the morphology for al-co-hol,

if you keep tilting this cup away from your eyes, that shrewd

thing will stop staring at you that way, waiting for you to empty.