Loose-fit Lucifer

The ice bergs rattle

And the glasses chink,

And the party's swinging

And I'm on the brink,

All along, in the old cold throng,

Banging head, pumping songs,

Something dead, something wrong

Joyful noise, smoking hard,

Sunken, gone,

Is this it?

We're having fun

But I'm apart

I'm on the run

I'm fish-guts rotten,

I'm Jonah, son,

And this doomed boat was damned 

And Far from home:

 I'm damned with you

And I'm damned alone.

This boat was damned,

And I'm sinking

In the scummy sink,

drowned in sorrow,

Downed in drink.

And the ice bergs rattle,

And the glasses chink,

And the party's swinging

And I'm on the brink,

The edge of nowhere

And I can't but think,

This thing you crave

Is this it?

I mean, is this it?

I took the shot,

I shot the hit,

But, still, is this it?

Is this it?

Is this it?

Is this it?

And I drank

and I sank,

And I was thrown overboard,

I'd cast the dice

The chink of ice,

Sucking on 

The shorter straw

There ought to be more

A surface loose-fit lucifer

Falling from the shimmering grace,

Sinking away from her.

And a month or two later

I was spewed up on the beach

And all that dog-vomit

Was out of reach,

The waters have passed

In between,

And birthed on the beach

I'm caked in vernix

And shiny and clean,

And I'm looking back at my life

This side of the divide,

This side of the shine,

And I'm asking

This IS it?

Right.

This is it.

It is this.