A Drunken Voice from Beyond [1960-1983]

There was those days, I farted my brains out after a good drunk I thought I’d never live to see twenty-five, at twenty and a half—; The clock never stopped for me to rest. I just coughed up slim Each morning from my chest, smoking those damn cigarettes—. Ah yes, indeed: bad breath: farting, and coughing, was my image.

Sleeping with the holes and whores, or whatever came around: I shall not accuse anyone of dirty socks: back then, at that time, For I was the worse of the lot, by far: not innocent, no trophies. My skin pale, a limp dick at times: red, pink blotches, swollen, I looked at times, as if was dead: amazing to be writing this.

“Who was I?” I’ll never know for sure, I’m not that same guy: Tight I was, wireless, no roots, a drifter, and half a brain low—: Spidery unsafe fucking whites, Negroes, Mexicans: everything! I had few smiles to give, no real goals, and a worried mother: The drunken road had no end: drinking, sneezing like smelly fish, Yet tenderly my mother took me in, nourish me, and I lived… To tell about this endless trip, my lizard-like hell: pitiful squid!

#1367 6/4/2006

Note: anyone who has sobered up after 22-years of drinking I take my hat off to them; I started drinking at 13-years old, and stopped at 35-years old; it is a hard balancing act, in a world that is off balance from the start. Therefore if you are recovering, good, if you want to try, good, if you want to die, and you feel alcohol is better than life, so be it; have it your own way, but perhaps you can leave the rest of us alone in the process, so we can enjoy life.