TUMS, TUMS IN THE DEEP
There is a current of sour air on the rise. It comes up from the jagged dark places: it has blown off still water where larvae blossom and wait for wings, wait for their time to attack. You know what is coming. You have brought it on yourself.
Last night, you and your hearty friends summoned the monster, although perhaps then not consciously, not at first. There was beer. Then there was more beer. Your party, giddy from the flowing grain, called more, more, more. As if you were in the mines of Moria, this became the thought to consume you, to flood you all. A madness seized you. Each pitcher had to be emptied. Each of you searched, frenetic, frenzied, for the bottom of your cups and wells. What no man would have done alone became each one's solitary mission, among friends.
It is coming. You drank too hard and too greedily. You knew not how far until the first wave of nausea, the first dry heave when you lay in bed. Now, you search for Tums. Tums, tums for the deep.
Perhaps they may stave off what you have summoned, as if by chalk, salt, circle, and chant. They may stave it off. But they will not slay it.
The hangover approaches, and in their beds, your party shivers and tosses through fitful beer-fueled dreams. Let them get what little rest they can. There will be no peace for you all, come morning.
Not a poem and not that original. But funny. Because i was drinking on an empty stomach last night and that often makes it sour, and I had to find the tums at - well - 4 AM - and hope that'd be enough.