Busch Light tastes like water —
if that water had been festering in an old sock that was stuffed inside a dirty boot.
Busch Light tastes like forgotten dreams and broken promises. It promises to deliver — something — yet it always fails and leaves the sour taste of shattered hope to linger on the tongue.
Busch Light tastes like Wal-Mart bikinis worn atop fake tits, smothered by your frothed mouth, still waiting to be satisfied —
a moment you have dreamed about since you first became acquainted with this imposter — hopes that your back, sore from lawn chair conversations, will hold out during this rodeo of disillusioned achievement.
Busch Light tastes like desperate sex with a stranger because you didn’t have enough money for your fix that day.
Busch Light tastes like innocence stolen — a lie that never speaks true.
Busch Light tastes like crunched dirt from a Monster Truck Rally — battered earth-water that you stomp and track all the way back to your trailer.
Busch Light tastes like day-old seltzer that had far too many cigarettes.
Busch Light tastes like aged relics of Bingo cards and raffles — victories never had; life never changed.
Busch Light tastes like the abyss of wanting.
Busch Light tastes like stagnation, a paralytic lack of anything extraordinary — far from ordinary itself, in any fashion — and thus it lacks character. Without character, one is without purpose and without soul.
© Anthony O’Dugan 2021