Allen Seward is a poet from the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia. His work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, Apocalypse-Confidential, Big Windows Review, Moth Eaten Mag, Spare Parts Lit, and Eucalyptus Lit, among others. He currently resides in WV with his partner and four cats. 

@AllenSeward1 on Twitter, @allenseward0 on Instagram, @allenseward on Blue Sky

bourbon and then—

the glass nearing empty 
again 
and the boredom setting in 

it’s time to make a pot of 
coffee 

the greatest moderator 
is 
the lack of will 

I 
do not 
wish 
to be drunk 
I 
suppose 

so what then?

I’ll tell you 
when 
the 
coffee 
is 
done.

the night that God laughed His ass off

this is when the poet sits down 
and writes 
a 
suicide poem:

I will never forget the taste 
of that barell 
of that M1911, 
the 
cold steel 
that tasted salty. 

I haven’t forgotten the taste 
but I 
have forgotten the sound 
of the click 
as the trigger was pulled by my thumb 
and the hammer struck down 
on 
the back of 
the empty gun. 

I hadn’t loaded the fucking thing. 

I couldn’t bring myself 
to 
do that. 

I used to call myself chickenshit 
for not being 
able to load my brother’s M1911
when I did that, 
but nowadays I just say 
that I was too afraid to 
do so. 

and that is perfectly reasonable.

nothing was clarified, 

and if God was really there
and watching 
then I’m sure He laughed 
his 
ass off. 

we are only here for so long

blessed are they who wander 
yet are not 
lost 
for they know 
how 
to use their time.