reproaches from the dead

pouring some blood-like whiskey into my old battered glass,
trying somehow to reach new heights of spirituality
outside, through the weak and decaying window
I could see the sky coming out of golden stars
in the neglected and stinking garden I could find
bloody buds sprouting out of the flowers left
in the distant darkness I could make out a few
angel-like persons coming out of the dead soil
my adorable grandmother,
my drunkard of a grandfather
and my brave girl
I shook my head;
was I drunk before drinking?
grandmother was surely coming to tell me
that I forgot to clean and embellish her grave last week
grandfather would ask me why I had
neglected his wife just like he did when alive,
but nothing about himself
I emptied the crimson glass in my trembling mouth
my dead girl knew that I had betrayed
the promise of never loving someone else
all due to that new girl next door
who strangely resembled her
the reproachful dead folk approaching
and stopping at the rickety garden fence,
I closed my freezing eyes,
plugged the juicy bottle mouth into
my own glass-cold mouth
and turned the bottle upside-down