Another Dry Bottom
more and more bottles emptied, hangover
wasting time, no desire to do anything.
to breathe, the nights grow long and
a bottle by my side.
as the wolves in the distance howl,
monsters descend upon
the empty streets, storming the bars,
shutting them down.
every day, upon waking up, two tequilas
for the headache,
a nice glass of whiskey to soothe the
heart and kill the memories.
remaining still, breathlessly walking
down the road, forgetting
the nights, the philosophical
discussions with tired bartenders.
morose nights of insanity, searching for
meaning in empty bottles;
howling at the moon, cursing the mocking
Mornings of Intense
the first bourbon had already been
downed. one more glass.
Jasmine was right there
on the blue couch
she was only wearing a John
Lennon shirt of mine
smoking a cigarette idly.
a knock on the door,
I peered from behind the
opened the door; quick transactions yet
a good morning, how
are you? fine, you? fine, thanks.
heres your junk
heres your glass
and the darkness reigned once
as the door was closed, the blind
Jasmine looked at the brown sugar in the
did not ask a single question had
been present for a transaction
before, even though I only knew her for
the needle was ready
the murderer of my true love, and
my most faithful friend
and as the junk was placed in the
Jasmine grabbed me by the
she asked feverishly.
too many reasons, I
and inhaled hungrily the rising
how can there be even one
liquid junk in the syringe,
death trapped in a tiny box;
uncontainable, yet so peacefully
once, I thought bourbon would take me
for a while, it seemed junk would do the
when, only briefly, once sent me to the
not anymore, the insane junk mornings of
dark summer mornings
are forever gone, past remnants of a
life lived on the edge,
while constantly lacking the balls for
the last damn step over the cliff.
Jasmine saw the tapping of the
the squirting of few precious
expensive tickets to the land of
in it went;
soon, it all became clear.
I was on and off,
switching faster than a
toyed by a hyperactive child.
Jasmine next to me;
her touches, her kisses,
memorandums for colder nights
of aimlessly wandering about
the flower meadows
where melting dragons roam.
I saw the colors; but, no
only a single dragon,
and a redheaded angel,
Byrons Muses little sister
(the shame of the family);
I smiled at both,
only momentarily could I now
the soft touches on my face,
the kisses meant
to bring me back to a reality
hours; wasted once more.
junk and bourbon.
the two true brothers.
the warriors I used to bring with
whenever I rode into battle
my gravest enemy.
now, Im all alone;
even the bourbon only comes
COME UP! sometimes I scream
during dreams I murder old
and raze apartments I only saw once down
to the ground.
Jasmine! I cried during that cold summer
it was snowing only inside the
she was nowhere around;
only a note.
Im coming back tomorrow. be
she came. I was drunk.
I had smoked the junk during the
4 grams in one night; a common
during my vicious, yet uneven, war with
she saw me. kissed me.
I couldnt get it up.
she walked away,
when I put a wrestling card on the
she did return, one more
the last chance I was given.
found me on the couch,
with a busty blonde next to
we were both drunk (and gently
and watching bloodbath deathmatches from
Jasmine walked away,
when a threesome offer came
its alright, I told
poured me another bourbon,
thus finishing the bottle.
always another one to open,
the stranger on my couch kissed
squirmed, when one of the wrestlers was
the cheek with a syringe all in
the name of extreme entertainment.
I heated up the needle, time
to stab myself too.
the stranger partook;
lost in the mist, we might have
I was all alone;
no one to come by,
except for the dealers and the
I spent the morning cooking,
the evening injecting,
the night writing.
I fell asleep;
in my dream,
the dragon was
I woke up in fervor,
drank two glasses of bourbon
and could get on
with my routine all
whether itll last a week, or a
its time for the final bender;
nothings ever truly accomplished,
spending nights in dives and mornings
whatever was lost between the 7th and
phone, wallet, friend, romantic
interest, soul, liver.
after way too many burned
and due to circumstances that stubbornly
refuse to change,
its time to pour the final first
gin and tonic of the dayof life.
its smooth taste hits the throat
beautifully and the sparkles
light a warm fire in the withering
one turns to two, turns to five; a beer
for the edge,
some Wild Turkey as night falls and
crazinesss requested by the
all the nights and weeks in dives come
vivid acid hallucinations, as more beer
and bourbons consumed;
tirelessly moving back and forth, all
the times I scared some poor
soul shitless, every time I burned
another bridge made of hay.
more drinks flow, as memories keep
coming backyet, I still cant
dig memories out of the well of
darkness. all the blackout days and weeks
are eternally gone.
mysteries for future
the first bottles
gonemysteriously empty. a second ones cracked open,
one more glass to commemorate the last
trying to embrace sobriety to create
better circumstances for
a future in new dives.
for some, its a spiritual journey,
a way to achieve
nirvana, or something; Ive
once, and chased the damn blue dragon
for several years.
yet, in every empty bottle, I looked for
answers. never found
there was always another bottle to
now, theres none. for several
weeks gone dry,
due to dire circumstances. no money to
hit the bars,
no real dives around to bum drinks off
more fortunate bums.
new streets, the changed streets of
and Ive got nothing to drink but
going insane, as midnight approaches,
to wash the dreams away, nothing to help
dance the damn flamenco of the dark
smelling beer in the air, almost tasting
hallucinations of my suffering taste
buds, as they crave
for a good long hit to commence a decent
nothing to drink but water and damn weak
nothing to soothe the burning mind, to
wake the withering soul.
my spiritual journey ended, when the
last bottle of gin went dry.
when the world turned turncoat and
and its alright; Ive longed
for the streets of childhood so much,
I managed to return to them. only to
witness the utter destruction
so perfectly concealed from the thin
veil that covered my hazed eyes.
now, sober for far longer than I thought
Im ready for the next trip; the
last song, no matter how long
it lasts. somewhere by a beach, swigging
cheap beer and margaritas.
sobriety only made me appreciate the
made me appreciate all the things I had
and didnt want;
sobrietythe cruelest spiritual
journey I ever undertook, but,
its alright. I needed the wakeup
call for whats truly vital in this life.
the lost highway awaits me, the curvy
roads that once led me to a lake
populated by a ghoul whale spurting