It’s just me

Between alcohol and fantasy,
I sketch with smoke a face that judges me crazy.
I see the moon trapped in its eyes,
and sarcasm that says my IQ = 20.

I even seem to see the prints.
left by its enormous feet
on the sandy path we walk along.

But it’s no excuse for my drunkenness,
It’s the irresponsibility of the human who doesn’t know where to stop;
glaciers end up in whisky on the rocks,
the ozone hole is as big as a sumo wrestler’s waist
and what’s with the seal culls?

Or perhaps my subconscious betrayed me
When it suggested we meet again.