Rant. Typo. Rank.

I am sitting at my table
Repugnant. Putrid. Rank
Poetry.
I need to write about something
I feel, but not quite,
It is like being there and back again
Only a little lesser
Than what was there
Remains there.
Only a bit lesser 
Of what went there 
Comes back
This is a war of attrition.
I have gnawed away enough
At emotions to feel one
Or choose not to.
I am a veteran

My eyes are heady. 
Typo. Heavy. Leaden.
Banal.
I am good at what I write
I feel. But I need reinforcement
Only there is no one
Who reads. Or wants to.
I am an accidental writer
With an increasing burden
Of periodic revaluation
Upwards. IFRS.
Never liked them, 'murican bastards
My skills are not a fixed asset.
Anyway.
I am supranational. Interstellar.

I have a galaxy put up on the ceiling
Earth. Sun. Her.
Black Hole.
At the centre of my galaxy
That consumes every speck
Of matter. Or no matter.
I tried to sling past. Without conviction
Hoping to fail. To be drawn into
Nothingness. Unknown, rather
Unbeknownst. To myself.
And succeeded accidentally
Now I can't go back
I am a floater. Again.

I gulp a gill of alcohol.
Scotch. Single malt. No, blended
Fuck.
I am broke in more ways that I can count
And I chose whiskey.
I hate alcohol. Makes me wild.
Typo. Mild. Euphonious.
Adjectives
That people, no I, rob me of
Civilisation counts on alcohol
More that it deserves to be relied upon
By cowards. And strongmen, alike
I will let her decide for me
Like she let me decide
Our split