Morose Nights at the
what the fuck are you
laughing at? Jason asked over his beer.
at this, I replied
and showed him the angry response I received
from someone I drunk texted a
couple of times - probably during some
drunken recalling of the long
she seems pretty
pissed, he noted.
yeah, I shrugged,
swigged down my beer. I guess, I did send her
a couple of quite eloquent
texts, which she found juvenile,
because she cant
well, guess she
didnt like them!
I ordered another beer, read
the text one last time before deleting it.
I hate bad writing - she had
one too many mistakes in her text,
one too many quite nonsensical
sentences. sorry, darling of old,
at least, even in my
drunkenness, I produce masterpieces.
I sipped on my ice cold beer,
still chuckling. she was yet another
burned bridge; yet another
former love affair that wished to
change me, that wished I lived
my life the way she wanted me to.
Bella walked in, sat next to
me; with just a nod she ordered
her vodka and tonic.
what the fuck are you
laughing at? she asked. I tried to explain,
and wished I hadnt erased
the damn text so quick.
sounds like it happened
more times than I can
count; kinda comes with the game, I lifted my glass
and we toasted to pointless and
angry former love affairs.
you like pissing people
off, she remarked.
its one of the few
things Ive got for entertainment; lifes shit,
Im doing my best
to enjoy it.
you should learn to care
a bit more about others.
shrugged; we drank.
soon, the text was forgotten,
just like its composer.
Bella and I drank ourselves
under the table and staggered to
her apartment, two blocks away
- though, it probably took us
half an hour to find it.
another drink was poured - it
was the one that killed all lust from
our bodies and minds. we fell
asleep in each others arms,
both dreaming of people
weve angered, people weve disappointed.
we woke up, had some vodka and
then, we finally fucked.
at noon, I went back home; to
sleep the night off.
trying to remember what the
angry text was; I couldnt.
in my sleep, I saw when the
composer of the text kissed me
on my old foldout couch and
said its only for tonight.
in the end, she broke her
engagement off for me, then couldnt take it.
Bella texted me; wondering if
Id be at the bar later.
always, I cracked a
Another Tree Chopped
where in the hell do you
get all this stuff? she asked, terror in her voice.
I just shrugged; I just
know people, who know people.
thats not an
answer, she accused me. I know, I nodded.
we chopped the lines, two short
for her, four long for me.
euphoria, sudden erection of
both body and mind; a desire
to do it all, burn the whole
world down and resuscitate it from its ashes.
damn it, she
coughed; I offered her a tissue for her nose. Im okay,
she reassured me, yet her eyes
told a different story.
in yet another instance of
chivalry, I believed her words and
lit a cigarette; I drunk some
more bourbon, for the blow had
taken the lightheadedness away.
what are you doing?
what does it look
like? I rebuked, my eyes fixed on the computer screen
and the blank page upon it.
is now the right
time? she insisted. its always
the right time, I
and that was it. she stayed
silent and opted to open my
copy of Ancient Gonzo Wisdom.
I was drinking straight out of
the bottle, typing madly,
while she read, lifting her
skirt all the way up, dangling her leg,
rubbing the tip of her high
heel on my leg, driving it all the way up
to my sleeping crotch. I hardly
noticed; more words added to the dance,
memories from earlier times,
other similar attempts made from others.
professional drinker and
amateur writer, barfly and a junkie;
sometimes, I put that on my
resume, no one seems to like it.
honesty has taken a hard hit
nowadays, they all want frankness
only as long as its
pleasant and inspiring.
perhaps, I should write how I
got inspired to write by reading
Coelho and Atwood, how their
words made me want to inspire
and improve the world as
bullshit always sells,
its how I got a
Bachelors and a Masters degree - by selling
whaleshit to professors.
the nights in the fancy bars,
as the drinks keep flowing and the wallet
keeps getting thinner,
I recall other nights in dive
bars and underground strip joints; how much
better sense the world made,
when I drank in the latter, how meaningless
life appears to be in the
former. and yet, for now Im trapped,
so far away from the joints of
the glorious past of nothingness.
when there was no hope, no
chance to make it past 27; only dreams
of a magnificent ending, of
finally writing the perfect story.
now, Im nearing 28, have
no dreams and yet still no hope;
only nagging from everywhere,
about my drinking (which has gone
featherweight) and my inability
to function properly. I walk down
the streets of Athens, unable
to find one inspiring face; the cars speed by
and often I think of just
still here, seeking for the perfect story
that wont come.
a phantom ghost touches
tenderly my shoulder, and soft lips
I havent kissed in 8 long
years whisper in my ear:
your Hell is now, embrace
it like only you know how.
In the Streets of Broken
with the right music blaring
into my ears, I recall
the last visit to the old town;
how I spent an afternoon
walking around more
than I did the eight years I
lived there. in just a few hours
trying to see all the sacred
always a ghost next to me.
flickering images; of Emily by the port, as we headed
to the dives.
of Christine holding my hand,
trying to make me quit the vices.
of countless other nameless
faces, some drunk, some sober, some
always with the whispering
ghosts; two steps behind
the unattainable dream that
keeps evading me.
I was there, as I am now
vividly in my head. all the streets,
the old dives and the new bars.
the walks, the talks,
eight years of madness - it
felt much better than anything.
for a while I embraced
sobriety, trying to make it into the
sex-literature market. no way
to shred off what I know, the booze,
the drugs, the people.
how can I write about a prince
falling in love with a farm girl?
how can I write about two
regular middle-class people and their lives?
give me the junkie, the
methhead, the boozehound, the bum,
the dealer, the pusher, the
loan shark, the tired bartender.
give me dives, not fancy
nightclubs. people with no hope.
thats what I know; and I
stare at the sky,
ready to get the fuck away,
back to where I belong; perhaps,
in some other distant country,
even take me to goddamn Mars
and let me brew beer and
moonshine. lets make the red planet
a boozehounds paradise.
wondering where Ill be,
as soon as I have just enough money;
saving up, preparing for the
last trip. and Im still here,
recalling all the ghosts that
accompanied that last walk through
the all too familiar streets I
drunkenly shambled through so many fucking times.
seeking for inspiration
everywhere; mostly in tall drinks,
and in pissing people off
eliciting reactions that fuel the poems.
of course, most people
arent able to procure decent reactions
to make up for more than a
couple of poems. its all right; it answers
why I can never write likeable
charactersIve rarely met anyone
and certainly Im one of
the most unlikable people youll ever meet,
and drink with.
nothing really matters,
Ive already forgotten the deleted message
from a scorned former love
affair - did text her drunk twice lately,
what for, Ive no clue -
and at least it fueled a couple of poems.
still lingering on the past,
the two great loves, all the false
replacements, the cold
unwilling to look forth, as the
future becomes bleaker with
every passing day; staying in
the drunk, substance rich past,
when everything made sense
within the insanity.