#drunks
*Grandmère = Grandmother
Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.
One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.
Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.
When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.
What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.
As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.
I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.
Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.
The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.
Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.
Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.
Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.
As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.
Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.
The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.
May 17, 2023
May 17, 2023 at 3:17 PM UTC
Another Night Here
Yelling in the Hallway
Can’t make all the words
Never can when they are drunk
A knife was involved
And a chain of some sort
Cops come
They are pleading their cases
Pleading their sides
Cops patiently listening
He pulled knife on me
She’s a *****
Sir please calm down
He’s a drunk
He stole my chain
Now I get the picture
I’m peeking out
I’m a peeker
Goes on for a bit
Ma’am Did he hit you
He pulled a knife
I was cutting something
Sir did you pull a knife on her
No
He threatened me
Did you threaten her
I threatened to throw her out
It’s his place
When this is figured out things calm down
Cops leave
She stays
She just wanted to be heard
She just wanted to be loved
He just wanted to be left alone
Don’t we all.
Don’t we all.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
it drips from the bottle
and into your
mouth
which spouts words
with no regard for my
feelings
that you don't know how to address
without alcohol kissing your
lips
that form sentences
with a mind of their own
uninhibited by their flattery of me when they were
sober.
it agitates your face
as it rests in your
hands
that used to hold mine and it
glazes over your
eyes
that used to light up when they saw me
or when they heard my
name
that you can hardly stand to speak
without alcohol
dancing on your
breath
that doesn't render sounds
without cheap courage summoned
up.
it depresses your
mind
that I used to find intriguing
as it was paradoxically
kind with a quick
wit
that no longer aims
to make me laugh
but is now restrained by the liquor
label
that you plastered to yourself
without concern -
would you even stop
if your own bottle said
please?
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
Me, on my way to clock out,
He, croaking wooden breaths, a
Splintering throat, crooked as an oar's overbite
Glinting with some
Unbelievably bared promise.
I looked past him, echoed the anxious knots
Of its hollowed brow, scooped and spotted
From overuse, I frowned past him, though he followed.
I spent as long as I could not talking to him,
But forced to deny myself silence
I heard his two part speech
And paid some token focus
To what he had to say
What little I heard, in his hope filled groans
Had nothing of his contented purpose, for
Varnished words are slippery
When we went to the pub he
Leant on the wooden counter and
His roots set, he
Sprouted drunken fruit and
I don't think he's moved since
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
Drunks lovers...
let me whisper my love to you...
let me soliloquize a love into your eyes...
and to float on your lips' seas...
and sleep on your darkest iris...
let me smell a loves' perfume from your body...
to perfume my body from your breathes' flame...
and to melt into your eyes' maze...
to get lost so deep into your space...
let me be the beat of your heart...
the air to your lungs
the rosy blood that runs into your veins...
and a loves' thought to your mind...
let me touch a love from your hands...
and drink it from your lips...
to be a drunk adorable lover...
a love that comes poetically from your lips...
let me be a lover that you adore...
let me be a desires that you seek for...
let me be that adorable talks inside your mind...
and a warmly whisper into you ears...
let me melt inside you as a Sweet wine...
to drink me to get me the drunk of your love...
let and give me...
all what gives us all what we need for...
love you...
for you only...
granting you my heart...
hazem al ...
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
You can't save a loser
They have to save themselves.
No matter how you love them
You can’t breathe for someone else.
You can’t pay their emotional bills
With the love stored in your heart.
You can’t be with them 24/7
So it’s best for you to start
Waking to reality’s demands
And wash your hands
Of this self-destructive fantasy.
Soon, even they will understand.
And if they don’t see wisdom
In what you are trying to do
Let them go on and ruin their life
But it won’t be because of you.
Maybe you think it is too late
Because you spoiled them already,
So now they need your guiding hand
To keep their courses steady.
If you’re strong enough to realize
You’re not helping them a bit
You can gather enough love
And strength enough to quit
Babying someone who today
Is no longer just a little child.
Let them find their own rock bottom
At the risk of being totally wild.
It’s really the only thing to do.
So, if you are the wife, the friend;
Sister, father, brother or mother,
You will find you have the time
For you and the loser to recover.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
I stopped somewhere along the way .
It was a blank place with even more blank faces .
They seemed just as detached as myself.
There is a true beauty of being alone .
I haven't seen a familiar face in weeks .
But then again I haven't had the headache of having to pretend
I care either .
I thought about when I left.
There was comfort in the routine.
Knowing the misery would great me every day .
Knowing the name of every ******* ******* who drove me nuts enough to leave in the first place.
As I waited to pay for gas the ***** behind the counter looked at me as though I was some sort of oddity .
Two six packs in hand I asked for a pack of Marlboro reds as well.
He looked at the clock .
Kind of early to be hitting sauce huh pal.
He asked me as he put the pack of cigarettes on the counter and rang the rest of my crap up.
His name tag read Mark.
I was just passing through but at least I had met one of the Kentucky chapter of ******** .
Well never to early to start a bad habit my friend I said as I paid the gas station Gestapo a fifty.
He held it to the light .
Just pressed it today bud I said.
Somebody has been passing fake bills around the area he replied .
Well when I run into somebody I will let him know your on the job .
You aren't from around here huh mister ?
He placed my change on the counter .
I didn't say **** I just walked out with my change and two semi warm six packs in hand .
I herd him say you have a nice day as I was heading out the door.
It was funny how people viewed others as if there life were some great ******* contest.
They thought there life's were good as long as there was someone else
to look down on.
Yeah I may be a **** up but least I'm not like that drunken loser they would say.
I cracked a beer aimed the car for interstate and was headed anywhere but here .
Yes I lived in a ******** but least my ******** had cold beer .
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
A small single apartment
That is all I really need.
The result of low ambition
And a paucity of greed.
A kitchen for cooking
A comfy place to sleep
Just great for meditation for
Thoughts that don’t go deep.
It was close to my buddies
That good old gang of mine
I go there, they come here,
As long as there was wine.
I was serving jug wine
And vintage it was not.
I had to switch to *** when
My stomach started to rot.
I also served cheap beer,
The cheapest I could find.
Between the wine and beer
It’s lucky today I’m not blind.
And food was also frugal
Mostly chips and salsa hot.
Stoners aren’t that choosy.
Gourmands we were not.
Of course we all had our own
Personal marijuana stash.
Its quality depended on
The amount of available cash.
But one of us was a dealer
Or sometimes there were two.
They always brought a supply
To sell, that’s what they do.
We laughed and roared and
Someone always had a guitar
It is nineteen seventy two
And that’s how conditions are.
Some of us had jobs back then
But most were floating around.
It’s hard to be a stable soul
With no feet on the ground.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
I drink wine before water
It’s better than beer.
Neither are like *****
They’re nowhere near.
Like beer, you can
Drink all of it you please.
It will never knock
Your life to its knees.
What? You say no?
You say they are equal?
This is a bad movie
I don’t want a sequel.
I have lived my whole life
Thinking wine is okay
And not contributing to
Alcoholism in any way.
I thought I could drink it
And party like a king
And the specter of addiction
Didn’t mean a thing.
Yes, I admit I ignored
Those drunks and hangovers
That woke me up feeling
I’d been hit by a Range Rover.
So, okay, maybe it’s real
This threat to sobriety
That is so accepted
And approved by society.
But now I have to find
A new way to celebrate
That won’t ruin my life
At some not too distant date.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Late Saturday nights,
packed cars and
laughing friends.
Trunk monkeys,
running around
fighting and fending off
the crazy drunks and
druggies of the night.
People screaming and
laughing and
running all over.
Everyone making jokes
and annoying one another,
all of us
making memories that'll
last forever.
Gotta love them
late Saturday nights.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
It all started with a big mistake;
I’m here to tell it was all a big fake.
Fred hit Kelly in his great big mouth;
He said he caught Kelly at his girl’s house.
Rosie was jealous of Fred’s main squeeze;
Said she always does what she pleases.
So, she cooked up the story about her.
And Kelly never knew a thing either.
But that didn’t stop the fur from flying.
I tell you the truth, if I’m lying I’m dying.
The mood changed in the old hangout.
Everyone stuck around, nobody cut out.
Everyone was gathered for birthday cheer.
You know, some pool and some beer.
Nobody knew about Rosie’s big lie
Or what kind of crap would soon fly.
They just laughed and cracked jokes;
Enjoyed some legal and illegal smokes.
And when the mood was sufficiently jolly
Rosie quietly took Kelly out into the ally.
Said she saw Kelly go into the house
Fred started fuming, calling Kelly a louse.
He went back in and he smacked old Kelly
And followed it up with a shot to the belly.
While Kelly was reacting, Fred purely raged.
He wasn’t quite done, was not even assuaged.
But Kelly’s girl Lydia heard what Fred said
And smacked Rosie up side of her head.
She started screaming that Rosie was a liar,
And then there were two more irons in the fire.
It was two women and two men slugging.
The Fist City Express started chugging.
Mirrors were broken by costly pool sticks
The bartender finally got tired of the tricks
And got out his baseball bat and stepped in.
Rosie ******* up and hit him on the chin.
By now, a customer called nine one one,
And the end of the brouhaha had begun.
All four of the combatants were busted.
And the cops finally decided they trusted
The regular customers who all insisted
That the bartender not be arrested.
It might be good to say it was a big shame
But fights in bars are the name of the game.
Especially when women fight, it’s a show
And bystanders in bars always let them go
And then cheer and some even take bets.
This is how selling alcohol to fools often gets.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
I think the truth is always right.
Duel, measuredly I do count my steps.
Tired eyes, yes, the night was sleepless.
I hope God will not leave me in the wrong.
My opponent, accepted the challenge, did not blink.
Bustling I always respect the bravest.
Yesterday's evening among the tipsy revellers,
May come up today with fresh blood pouring out.
Helen,please forgive me, later you will understand,
The hot breath only the bullet can cool up.
The day begins, my time has come.
But the coming up evening, I hope, will be starry ....
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.
Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.
**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC