a shaky kitchen table,
just another midnight trap,
was set by your evil inclination.
who will count shots, that you will pour inside?
an irritating cricket on the porch
or moon, that feasts it’s apathetic eyes
on its other side.
a self-cannibalistic urge to gorge oneself,
is an element of thrill.
the reflection that is frolicking on the bottom of the shot.
that will disappear, afterwards, –
two hungry claws.
a mantrap, always keeps its teeth
so dreadfully sharp.