Blood is a lively little wine
with a peach blossom nose
and surprisingly astringent cigar notes in the finish.

I drank 961 centilitres of alcohol altogether,
in 2007. I’ve kept detailed records
of the exact degree to which I lost control:
the equivalent of 102 bottles of red,
the bloodstream of 20 medium-sized priests.
Not much of a stain on the soul.
Not even a small share in a large invasion.

The people are nothing,
just cartoon faces in a noisy bar.
Only the wine is holy,
a coagulation spattering even the frame.

The torture isn’t the torture,
the torture is the nightmares afterwards.
The chest scar is clamped open, again,
but the surgeon is suddenly mawkish.
The light shines through the altarpiece,
so that the cross is a shadow, sunless.
The Lionheart invents a flag with two wipes
of Arab gore on his white tunic.

And I must be the drunkest man in heaven.

© Will Holloway 2008

See also:

Arnulf Rainer's "Wine Crucifix"