Wet My Whistle by Ben Thonett

Wet my whistle
to make my drought poor,
dousing me in Dettol,
stinging myself and sores.
Bartering buys a knife for paradise,
it soothingly smothers the slice for sacrifice,
piercing one problem;
posing in negative numerals.
Close my eyes
and feel the texture bubble.
When it’s filled with humble cigarettes,
imperfections burst with less stress
before emptiness and loveless
welcomes camomile contradictions
ending Absinthe tears.
In it’s place is passion choking,
gasping from east peers.
When the breathing hurts;
there’s a bite in the breeze,
fire on the dance floor and
flying on to hands and knees.
Ben Thonett is 21 years old and lives in Dublin.

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Filed under Ben Thonett, Poetry

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