"Grapeshot champagne"

I’m deafened by grapeshot champagne corks,
and tonight’s rented tux just can’t commit;
my martini needs a AA battery and three pennies in
– from before ’oh-two if you can swing it...

I drove over a buried bathtub filled with packed snow –
the landscape’s features just aren’t its own anymore.
Was surprised and, so, froze that-then here-and-now,
but it’s still a sad weird world where a picture isn’t even itself.

I've heard that every bullet feels like a bird
'til it tries to pull up – and despairs, and then wants to hurt.
Science lets us make maple syrup from saplings, though
milking sweetness from babies isn’t something folks much want to do.

We must be more gentle – even language gets broken in half:
convictions’re sometimes the very best or worst thing you can have.
We think waterfalls are beautiful from above and below,
but halfway down are often much less-so.

The lately-regretful brain-in-a-vat dries out on the floor
having reached the Libertarian ideal – tipping over its jar.
Folks are like stock off-feed; but on the other hand, my man, okay – now,
let’s not get perfect – because then there’s no sound.

Bartender, I guess I’ll have another…