I love to get drunk.
I love to get wasted, hammered,
plastered, intoxicated,
white girl, ****-faced drunk.

I have many stories about getting drunk,
from racing up the street and back naked because I lost another bet
being stripped down and thrown into a
shower after vomiting on myself,
or having *** with a ******* my friend’s couch
(I call it my *** couch now).

Okay so most of them I end up naked
But that’s the glory of ***** my friends!
Enough can make you feel like you have clothes on
when in fact you clearly do not have clothes on,
(We know, it’s cold, no one is looking at you’re **** anyways),
It can make you think you’re dance moves are on point,
Give you strength to punch a dent in a fridge because you thought someone was talking **** about you’re friend when really they were just talking about skateboarding,
It can even give you the courage to walk over to that really really
cute girl and tell her how much you want to put it in her ****.

The point of me telling you all of this is that some people have given alcohol a bad rep.
Obviously all the people who drunk drive and get into accidents.
But no, I’m talking about people like… the douchy frat boy who gets obnoxiously drunk, calls everyone a *** even though he’s probably a closet homosexual, who borderline tries to **** girls with his big muscles and amazing ability to care so much about football. By the way, I’m not you’re ******* bro.

Or the dumb girl who thinks she can drink a million shots and be okay, the one girl that pop punk bands always sing about, who end up puking everywhere, or sleeping with the douchy frat boys while all their friends call her a ****, and then she’ll make a post on facebook about how all guys are douchbags, among the other dumb **** she posts on facebook like stupid life quotes such as #YOLO

Or even the hipster who has ruined drinking PBR in public forever.
(No, I’m not a hipster, I just go to art school and PBR is cheap, you *******.)

And to those stuck up individuals who tell me that drinking is bad and I should feel bad: ******* and the high horse you rode in on. Saying I’m an alcoholic is saying that I have more fun then you. I have never met an interesting person who doesn’t drink. If you don’t drink, you’re a boring **** and all you’re stories ****. They all end with, “And then I got home.”

Alcohol was God’s way of telling us the world’s a ****** place, so he took a little bit of heaven and bottled it up for us, and if you believe any of this you’re probably drunk; Not the part about bottling up heaven, the part about God existing. But if I was you’re god, I would sprinkle wine out into the night so when you looked up at it to wither time away with questions to me you’d be so drunk with the moment and forget about being saved. Because life isn’t about heaven and hell, it’s about living and being alive and being drunk with the people you love.

How Dare You Tell Me - What Is Literature?
When I, waking pre-8:25 alarm, from some engulfing dream
Roll out of bed, read poetry when the day has hardly dawned
The wind surges through the crack in everything
Through my window, leaning and weeping
Screaming and tearing at me in Greys
Grays I've neglected in favour of Drakes
Socialising, absorbing this post-everything
Hearing echoes of Alex Turner
Soulful Amy drowned in Wine
The Magic Mushroom experiments of my early years
My late teens, which should have come earlier
Forced to grow fast to the sounds of Lennon and Kendrick

We live in a generation of not being in love, and not being together

When I first heard 'good kid, m.A.A.d city' I was still young
Because who told me what to expect?
Who told me but the Mothers and Teachers of the 80s?
The Bleeding Hearts and Artists make their stand
So Far Gone, falling free from the wall, unhinged
Leap of faith, like washing up the first cup in a student kitchen
Lemon drizzle flow and Drizzy seeping through every artery
A modern century, reaching 21 in 21

But back to the scene set to the Ice Age
Liverpool is my hometown,
London is frozen in memory, the pressure has us crash together
Our minds blend like time, concepts, musical genres
'Blurred Lines' - Feminist uproar defines this '4th' Wave
3rd Eye: We are living in the Future, in ignorance of the present
We are Generation Y, or Z, or just a generation of terrorists
Sages, Mystics, Heroes...

Sweeping winds through my window on a dreary morn
I read 45 pages of poetry because I feel like it,
Not because I have a seminar
University's red bricks fading away for me now
I'm just staring at a man's soul,
Attaching myself, this is why I write
I reach for the ceiling, in this small room
Yawning, the stretch of a new day
Going for gold (the sun, the stars)
Going for breakfast, alone downstairs with Paul Farley

As I stretch I look out the window
See four attractive, modern girls walking
(Probably to lectures, though it seems amidst the hour)
I can lecture too, with my arrogant, contemporary voice
I think - if they see me I will smile and wave, wink maybe
(Perhaps not, I am a feminist after all...is this ironic?)
These are products of angsty teen poem generators
They don't look, but I feel it may as well have happened
(I am in such a good mood I would smile at myself)

This generation seems to lounge in apathy
Girls in beanie hats, tripping off Raider **** (RVIDXR KLVN?)
Obey Snap Backs giving me Flash backs
I wish it was the 60s, I wish I could be happy
Trap is the new Rock and Roll, Prog-Rap is coming, sit tight
(Was this always about hip hop, girls etc?)
Am I as readable as Holden Caulfield?
Reading about John Lennon drinking Milk
I felt like Sylvia Plath on 10th February 1963
Well, I feel like Lennon on 11th February 1963
Am I even an '13 Ye?
Screaming 'R.I.P STEEZ', or 'Twist and Shout'
How far have we come now..?
When will we redefine 'Post-Modernism'
Or give this era a Literary title
Like PBR&B; or Indie
Like Blues or Jazz
Like the wind that rushes through my window and my follow up 9:45 alarm telling me I need to set off

All I wanted was a cigarette.
We weren't allowed to smoke.
He knew where to go.

We swept sidewalks together.
Raked sand together.
Talked about life together.

His window was across from mine.
I think he saw me changing once.
Maybe more than once.

He was getting dishonorably discharged.
I didn't think he was a good man.
I didn't think he was a bad one, either.

It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He knew where to go.

I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He carried them with him to his room.
I didn't think anything of it.

We raked sand together.
We ate lunch together.
We watched movies together.

We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
We drank and smoked and laughed.
I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian.

Russian for "hello" and "goodbye."
Russian for "This is allowed."
Russian for "This is not allowed."

I think he saw me changing once.
He tried to kiss me on the cheek.
I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much.

We smoked some more.
We drank some more.
We laughed some more.

It was 2130.
I had to be in my room by 2200.
He said not to worry, I'd be back in time.

I insisted and tried to leave.
I fell to the ground.
He didn't help me up.

I only wanted a cigarette.
He kissed me on the mouth.
I did not kiss him back.

I was immobile.
Paralyzed.
Drugged?

He kissed me again.
And again.
And again.

I did not kiss him back.
I had a boyfriend.
All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh.

He grabbed me by the ankles.
Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence.
I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms.

I was paralyzed.
I always thought I would fight.
Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers.

I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147.
That was the last time I prayed to God.
There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms.

There was something less than a man between my legs.
It looked at me with hate in its eyes.
We swept sidewalks together.

God kicked back and swigged a PBR
     while I was ***** behind the army barracks,
     over the ditch by the installation fence.

He helped me up.
I couldn't stand on my own.
How sweet.

I vomited by a tree.
I was disgusted with myself and him and God.
I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.

He walked me to my barracks building.
How sweet.
I made it to my room by 2200.

All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway.
I was so violently alone.
Taps wailed outside the window.

I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
He brought it to me the next morning.
How sweet.

“The usual….perfessor”…asked the bartender.
“Not tonight Sam….celebrating….gonna hike it up a notch”….”Something from a bottle this time”.
“Maybe a PBR” he laughed, “…instead of the usual…draft PBR…bottle….”.
“On it’s way”….”why the upgrade”…”…it’s a whole twenty five cents more on the tab” laughed the bartender.

“Tonight, my dear sir, Tonight….was the opening of the school play…and I survived…barely….but, I survived..and I’m here to tell the tale”…”so….Tonight….we splurge!”.

“I forgot” said Ted, the barkeep. “I knew it was coming up….but, well…you are here…and not cowering in a corner somewhere, curled up in the fetal position…so, I am assuming that this year went better than last years version of “Death of a Salesman”.?”

“Better? it would not have been to tough to be better than that catastrophe…it was the best…THE BEST….out of all of the previous school plays…I couldn’t be more proud of how it turned out…..**** it..PBR and a chaser…it was that freaking good!”

“Really? In all of the years you’ve been teaching at the school you have never…NEVER come in here this happy about how the show went. I can’t believe it!”

“Don’t…It was crap. What I just did was acting. What they did, was crap. You know we did “Death of A Salesman”. Classic play. Great play. It’s been done by some of the best actors in the industry. Then, there was our version. It should have been called “Death of A Theater Arts Program”.

“Sorry to hear that Professor,  two more?”
“**** right, and keep them coming.”

“I was a working actor for years before I took this gig. I wasn’t great, but, I got by. These kids, I just don’t know, I just don’t get it.
The lights went up and they just lost it, it was more Monty Python than Arthur Miller. I mean, he must be spinning in his grave at some incredible speed right now. These kids made my brain hurt”

“It couldn’t have been that bad Professor, I mean, they did all right in rehearsal, didn’t they?”

“Sure, no family watching, no pressure at all…they did fine. But, once those lights went on and the curtains went up, it was every man for himself, total deer in the headlights on stage.  And through it all, I couldn’t do a **** thing except stand stage left thinking, “So, this is what the Captain of the Titanic felt like that fateful night”.

At this point in the conversation, the door opens and a man walks in. He hangs up his  overcoat and joins the men at the bar.

“****…what are you doing here?”

“You two friends?” asks the bartender

“Principal Paul Jackson” says the newcomer. “From…”

“Let me guess” said the bartender, “from the same school The Professor teaches at?”

“Two more…and one for him” says the teacher.

“Yes, that school. The Professor, I like that, I can get on board with that”.

“So, what brings you here? I mean, the play is over, the kids ******, and let me guess…oh, maybe you are here to dump on me, and give me my walking papers in private”

“******, I wouldn’t go that far Professor, I can call you that can’t I? It wasn’t great, but, I must say, after what we’ve had before, it was okay. I mean they tried, they were engaged, and nobody cried on stage like they did when we did Little Women”.

“Were you watching the same thing I was? They called ***** Loman “Wally”, eleven times….ELEVEN times!!! Engaged? they were so far off script, there was no way in the world we could get back. I mean, I tried, I really tried, and I thought we had it down. But, tonight, those lights went up and it was total deer in the headlights on stage, for each and every kid”.

The drinks arrive, and the bartender leaves the men alone.

“*****, Wally, what does it matter?” They winged it, and got through. I mean, it could have been worse, but, they forged ahead”.

“Forged ahead…Washington forged ahead  crossing the Potomac, these kids, wrote a whole new play on stage in real time. Nothing made sense. It was hard to watch. I was waiting for the audience to leave, which, I think…may have happened, had they been given a
chance with an intermission”.

“See…right there, nobody left. That is a plus. You have to admit that is a win right there…nobody left, and that sir is a winning program. They had to see where it went, what happened and Professor, what comes next?”

“You can’t be serious? or are you just being facetious? “, said the Professor.
“Oh, I am serious, deadly serious. You weren’t expected to put on an award winning play, just to entertain those who attended and most important, to be able to put on the play. Most times, it never sees the light of day, teachers quit the production, students quit, hell, I quit…twice. The goal was to put on a production and you did. It wasn’t great, hell, it wasn’t even good, but, it was entertaining in the way people drive slowly by a fire or a train wreck sort of way, and you did it.”

“Bartender, two more beers, make that three….one for you and more shots” yelled the Professor.

“Start picking next year’s show and no matter what happens…save these seats for the after party”.

You aren't quite sure why this mediocre movie is so funny
but **** it Adam ******* is on form
look he's doing the thing with the voice
I want ice cream. Does anybody else really want ice cream?
my throat is made of desert sand
dessert* sand
that's funny
oh yeah OJ thanks
now pass me the rig. the song is changing and we need some new energy
I just want to chill and vibe
the ceiling fan hasn't been dusted in... oh I don't know, a year?
and just maybe it will come crashing down upon us
a black mess of ash, soot, and dust
and maybe that would be pretty funny
and maybe I'd geek out
and maybe I wouldn't
who cares? the next episode of Trailer Park Boys is about to start
and the sun is about ninety degrees from setting

Night now
and moonlight flows as adrenaline
rushing and flooding the parts of our brain
which go
"well **** this could be fun"
a recipe for a good night goes like this:
five cans of beer, pbr or bud light
maybe coors
some of those girly limearitas
because **** it they are yummy and get the job done
smoke break
make it three in a row
working on the chain gang of suicidals
okay now break open the good potion
whiskey *** gin ***** whatever sinks your boat
but make sure to consume in large damnation seeking swallows
and remember men only chase with high fives
who even high fives anymore?
now listen the **** up
because this next part is important
never. I repeat never smoke within three hours of the night
that is unless you want to get trapped in the party limbo
of hanging out in the kitchen, by the fridge
with the two only people you know in the entire joint
nobody want's to **** the guy eating pizza and playing with the cat in the corner
while you're there - be sure to drink as much free liquor as possible
oh me? I'm an exchange student from England. Show me what American college life is like? Sure I'll quote some Harry Potter. Sure I will take that shot. Oh your roommate is not home? Interesting.
because we all know that *** brings validation, and validation is the biggest drug of all
wake up the next morning and mumble something about a hangover and how much fun last night was
can I get your number? I'll text you my life story in emoticon format sometime.

Back in the filthy apartment
your bed stained with ash, sweat, and God knows what looks awfully inviting.
sleep an hour or two
get up feeling less ******
put on a *** of coffee
liquid ******* to set your veins running with productive fire
and then the shakes come
smoke a few cigarettes if you have any left
if not, the pick market is just a block away
and the sun is shining
okay now get into your bath robe and sweat pants
smoke yourself a fat GB
you deserve it
shake off the grime and pseudo-glory of night before
in a couple of hours
it's all going to start again

Ironic wardrobe.
He only drinks PBR.
The complete hipster.

it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away

there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.

is this a literal housewarming

i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell ****, and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.

i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.

i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.

i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.

i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ******. i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.

ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.

a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.

I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine  The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given.

Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat.

In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.

I wonder if they're happy.
They sure do seem so.
They're always talking about stealing their daddy's Jaguars and having beer blasts and getting in to fights and being bros and getting tan and buying new swimsuits and getting a call from different modeling agencies and crashing cars and smoking cigarillos and drinking fancy wine and going to their beach house and deciding between Harvard and Yale or Porsche and Mustang and did we win the football game and making new friends and oh my God Stacy actually said that and dude, I totally ****** her and my math teacher is such a ***** and my parents are putting me into boarding school and check out my new Jordans and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

*I wonder if they're having fun. It sure seems like it.
They're always talking about hitch hiking to the next city over and going to shows and drinking PBR and sneaking out at night and yeah dude, that party was sick and my tumblr is so famous right now and check out my new denim jacket and smoking **** and getting in to fights and lifting cigarettes from stores and Austin and Katie slept together and Kyle broke edge and I'm still working at McDonalds and yeah I'm still driving my '93 Ford Ranger and smoking hookah and watching Mean Girls and yeah I love the ocean and check out my new Kicks and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

Pbr,
A Richmond hipster
Hip checking sobriety
And being hip in a social rivalry
Alcoholic tides to me
Nothing I can hide from me

****** American beer
Nothing but
Loathing and fear
Directed towards self
A reflection on the shelf
Left alone
With nobody else

Sinking
And sinking
And sinking

dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go


6/23/18