Praise Him In The Noon-Time by Cody Davis

His collar tips jazzed sharp as he threatened through the door. 10 fingers on two hands are gilded rings and permanent ink.

It’s the middle of the day; He has been drinking, and has shown himself to drink more. He smells like an Amsterdam café filled with failed poet whiskey and white kid weed.

His weathered black boots shovel the wood planks as he tips through past by glazed kind and eyes alike. His teeth are a confident gray and prying, tongue sharpening hollow canines.

What will you have?

He orders fire wine and sits on a stool with drink in hand, rings playing pitches on the glass.

He coughs and brings his tribal hand to his open mouth. Spit and mist shower his palm as his lungs flex and cancered cilia evacuate a dry, heavy throat.

He drinks his brandy like water, fighting a reaction, his desert esophagus being purified, bleaching curse words stuck in his throat ribs. His breath heats the air as he exalts the alcohols vapor.

He is a skeleton man filled with jelly. His organs and veins sweat 80-proof IV out of small cracks and notches in his bone frame.

He is leaking.

He is drinking.

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