Wine Drunk

And now the words flow.

Spew forth like wine streams through a festival of Dionysos.

First, numbing. Then, sensualizing. Finally, vomiting ensues.

A veritable catharsis of thought.

Les mots gesticulate.

First, through the throat. Then, the mouth. Caressed by the tongue.

Through the teeth, and released by the lips.

Soufflent the hymn of a polychromic language.

Les mots sont plus belles. Plus que je puisse articuler.

The most beautiful words utter from my mouth.

And into the ears of my new found friend.

Mon amie française.

Elle est jeune et jolie.

We bond over musique.

Kindred taste.

I worry she will grow weary of my company.

“Even a guest starts to smell after two days.” -Benjamin Franklin

But the succulent bliss of a merlot-cabernet momentarily seizes my worries.

Oh the power of alcohol, I will never understand.

In a state of wholeness, it is the bane of socialized norms.

Ever present, normalized, at a majority of soirée.

While the fun is independent of the elixir.

An illusion and allusion to freedom from inhibitions.

And yet, what was blocking me before to find my words?

What did I escape in the bottom of the bottle?

Ici mon français a revenu.

C’est la poésie.

French poetry.