Dis-Inspiration

I wake up
Or part of me does,
The gut-check, knee-jerk reaction part
That comes alive when I drink
Too much; it happens
These days when, whilst pressed for time,
I seek release
From both rhythm and rhyme,
My best friends
On whom others staple masks
Of evil, deceitful boredom--
The type that induces
That age
Old question:
"What else?  What else?"
Which is followed by twenty-seven
Text messages
That accomplish nothing;
The only evidence of something
Transpired are the bloodied,
Murdered minutes
Which we cannot see, though
Our bodies feel them down
Deep where the giant squids lurk
Along with our childhood enemies
And last year's birthday cards--
The messages more brief
Than those of the previous year's,
Which were read in transit
On the way to a copy of a copy
Of a copy of another night's drunken binge.