Editor’s note: In this poem that grabbed me right away when he performed it at the latest open mic at Poniatowski, Stewart Tunnicliff describes the personalities and feel of the many kinds of booze he’s romanced (or at least hung out intensely with).
Tequila, my scantly-clad fuck-buddy. My one-night stand, roll between the sheets, bottoms-up, down-in-one kinda gal.
Hey beer on tap, my let’s hit the town and get shit-faced, out of our tree. Paint the town red. Hell no, you’re my wing man. Let’s paint that fecker all the colors of the rainbow. Fuck it!
Hi babe, beer in a bottle. What an affair, unfaithful mistress. Leave it in the park, on the street, in the sleazy hotel room. Discarded like used condoms.
Cognac, my night in, by the fire, on the rug, snuggled up with a good set of poems and pleasant thoughts. Watching the world go by in autumn. Leaves left like a rug at the door, us laid at the foot of the hearth.
Whisky, my pipe and sleepers man, with a good book. A hefty one, a winter read. Musing on good threads, themes, and great narratives. Our hiStories played out in the dimming twilight.
Vodka, how is it going? My up-all-night, let’s have a fight. Rough and tumble of a never-resolved argument.
Bourbon, my buddy. My come-out to play now and again. Have a good old time, great Craic. But not heard from you in ages.
Rum, my sipper. My sting on the lips to be kissed off, to be licked off, to be passionately embraced with.
Gin, my only if I am desperate. A late-night call in the wee hours. A quick come by and console me for a bit.