I drink my own misery
Trying to drain out the pain
I drink my own tears
Trying not to water tissues
I drink my own self
Trying to be absolute
I drink my own soul
Trying to escape reality
I drink my own dreams
Trying to make the road easier
I drink my own friends
Trying to make them real
I drink my own thoughts
Trying to make them dissapear
I drink my own venom
Trying to die in peace
I drink my own reflection
Trying to be invisible
I do all these things
Yet I'm still visible~K.O.

Never have I ever kissed!
Drink.
Never have I ever hugged!
Drink.
Never have I ever hurt my wrist!
Drink.
Never have I ever been mugged!
Drink.

Never have I ever had ***!
Drink.
Never have I felt dim!
Drink.
Never have I ever stayed in contact with an ex!
Drink.
Never have I ever got back with her or him!
Drink.

Never have I ever smoked!
Drink.
Never have I ever been in a fight!
Drink.
Never have I ever felt provoked!
Drink.
Never have I ever punched out someone's light!
Drink.

Never have I ever drank!
Dri- wait what?

Never have I ever, the best game to play when you're alone.

I Drink! - to blot out the world,
I Drink! - to make sense of the pain.
I Drink! - to forget of my misfortunes,
I Drink! - to suppress the insane.

I Drink! - as life dealt me a meaningful crack,
I Drink! - as I am as low as I can go.
I Drink! - as no one could love me,
I Drink! - as no one would stoop that low.

I Drink! - for I need courage,
I Drink! - for i need the reassurance of man.
I Drink! - for to blot out the voices,
I Drink! - because I can.

Sheila..

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

what doesn't **** you makes you stronger
you'll never know unless you try
face your demons and live longer
if you don't you'll surely die

Susie wilkins had some problems
tried to keep them all at bay
kept her secrets deep inside
but sometimes they would want to play

If you've toasted with the devil
he'll get your soul with just one glass
drink with him, he'll find your weakness
he'll get your soul, with just one glass

Susie thought she'd beat the needle
many years, the scars were healed
but, just one lonely drink with our dear devil
and all her demons were revealed

Susie, went back to her trailer
Another drink and then she'd try
One more needle couldn't hurt her
Her secrets out, and so she'll die

Otis Watson was a coward
Hit his wife for him to please
No one ever really wondered
Why she always wore long sleeves

He got his fill from all the torment
But, in the end  he needed more
A simple punch would not appease him
To him, she was a cheating *****

If you've toasted with the devil
he'll get your soul with just one glass
drink with him, he'll find your weakness
he'll get your soul, with just one glass


A little man with many demons
A simple drink with you know who
His inner issues had now surfaced
The devil now would get his due

He came home drunk his wife was waiting
She knew the beating that what would come
He came in hard his fists were flailing
As he met her brand new gun

There'll always be another bottle
And there will be another name
Just sell your soul and tell your demons
Just drink with him, it's all a game

Life is not a game of simple
It doesn't take a lot to lose
But if you're drinking with the devil
To him your demons are old news

If you've toasted with the devil
he'll get your soul with just one glass
drink with him, he'll find your weakness
he'll get your soul, with just one glass

Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a

Does everyone remember their first drink?
It was probably pretty bitter right?
I remember mine, I was so excited.
It was like an adrenaline rush
I kept asking and asking and asking my parents for a sip
and finally I got it
and it was absolutely disgusting.

You know a first drink is never what you expect it to be.
You always think it's going to be delicious,
life changing even because you expect that
out of the blue you'll be able to
distinguish between good drinks and bad drinks.
That you'll suddenly make it a habit
and that you will be instantly cooler.

Love kind of works the same way alcohol does
the first one you think is going to be great.
and it usually isn't
(except for a few freaks of nature who get it right after one try)

Love, like alcohol, is one of those things you try to quit
and you never do.
Like after a long weekend in college you promise you will never touch alcohol again,
And after a bad break up you swear you'll never touch a member of the opposite *** again.
but you do.

It's the same thing.

Relationships like a first drink can leave you bitter.
It takes years to learn how to distignusih a bottle of top shelf alcohol
from the stuff you buy in a handle for eight dollars.

And it takes years and plenty of heartbreak to distinguish between the good people and the bad people.
The people you keep in your life and the ones who will burn you.


but eventually, we get it right.
Eventually we realize we can drink without making that scrunched up face,
we realize we can sip some cold beverage and enjoy it
and sometimes we realize
we've found that one person who
doesn't leave us bitter,
who we can be with forever.

That one person who doesn't burn us
the way alcohol burns your throat.

When you meet that person,
you need to hold on.
And that's what's happening here today.

So all I can say is....sip slowly and never be sober.






Love is like a good drink.
you know, the kind you buy special for the party
because all they’ll have is bud, and PBR.

It’s like the drink you carry around all night,
sipping it, to make sure it lasts.
The drink you proudly carry,
label out, for the world to see.

Love is like a good drink,
the kind that sits beside you
at the beer pong table.
Understanding that
you have to chug all those beers,
before you realize it’s that special drink you really want.

Before you realize you can love without
the cheap scratch ticket selling liquor store.
Before you realize it’s time for the good stuff.

Love is like a good drink,
the kind you sip, slow,
the kind you buy special for the party.
The kind you keep in your house,
displayed on a shelf.

Love is like a good drink,
when times get tough, it’s there
when things are good, it’s there
and when your world is crashing down,
when you think everyone hates you
it’s there.

My only advice, and my only wish
is that you
stay thirsty my friends.

YOU GOTTA HAVE A BEER ON AUSTRALIA DAY, MATEY



HI DUDES, IT’S JANUARY 26TH, AND WE MUST CELEBRATE

THE DAY WE WERE INVADED BY CONVICTS, YA SEE MATE

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

AND BECAUSE OF THAT IT’S IN OUR CULTURE TO DRINK

JUST LIKE I DID, I HEAR MATES SAYING, YOU GOTTA HAVE A BEER FOR AUSTRALIA DAY, WHY

WHAT IS WRONG WITH COKE, COKE IS FROM AUSTRALIA

AND THE MEN SAID, WE MUST DRINK BEER, WE MUST DRINK BEER

WE ARE DESCENDANT FROM CONVICTS, AND IT’S IN OUR CULTURE TO DRINK

WE LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY

OH YEAH, BOW BOW, WE DRINK EVERY BEER UNDER THE TABLE, AND GET BLIND

YEAHH GET WASTED, MAN, WASTED, MAN

AND THEN COOK A BEAUTIFUL LAMB CHOP ON THE BBQ, DUDES

YEAH IT SOUNDS RADICAL, SO RADICAL, LIVING IN AUSTRALIA, WITH A CAN OF BEER AND A NICE LAMB

EXCUSE ME EXCUSE ME, THERE ARE 2 LAMBS HERE

YEAH, IF THEY ARE BOTHERING YA, WE’LL HAVE ‘EM REMOVED

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY

THE ONLY REASON I LIKE AUSTRALIA DAY IF, IS THE NICE AUSTRALIA DAY BBQ BREAKFAST AT COMMONWEALTH PARK, IT SOUNDS SO RAD

AUSTRALIANS DRINK THEIR BEER, AND PROUD TO DRINK THEIR BEER

GET BLIND AND END UP IN THE DITCH, I LIKE HOW AUSTRALIANS PARTY ON AUSTRALIA DAY, IT’S COOL

BUT THEN THEY STILL THINK IT’S COOL TO DRIVE HOME DRUNK, NO IT’S NOT COOL TO DRIVE HOME DRUNK

BUDDHA DOESN’T APPROVE OF DRINKING LOUTS, EITHER DOES CRONUS, WHO IS ME

NO, I BELIEVE IN A GOOD CLEAN PARTY, A PARTY, WHERE EVERYONE, I MEAN EVERYONE RICH OR POOR ARE SAFE

I AM THE COOL PEOPLE’S LITTLE SKATEGOAT, AND I AM A BIT OF A SILLY GOAT

CAUSE, I KNOW MY STORIES ARE HELPING A LOT OF PEOPLE

WE DO LIVE HERE IN AUSTRALIA, MATE, WHERE WE LIVE IN A CULTURE OF REAL COOL PARTY GOERS

AND THE PROBLEM IS, THEY TAKE THE PARTY ON TO BEING KILLED OR KILLING SOME INNOCENT FAMILY

AND CRONUS, WHO IS ME DOESN’T ALOOW THIS, I AM NO OLD FOGIE I JUST CARE FOR THE WELLBEING OF MY FELLOW, MAN

I LIKE THE IDEA, OF PEOPLE LEAVINGT EACH OTHER ALONE, IF I DON’T WANT TO DRINK WITH YOU, I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO

CARE FOR YA FELLOW MAN, THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY PHILOSOPHY

I RESPECT YOU AS LONG AS YOU FOLLOW THE PARTY CODE, LIKE ME

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN AUSTRALIA’S CULTURE TO HAVE A FEW BEERS, YEAH MATE YEAH YEAH I’M RAD

AND THEN MR FRED HAMILTON, WHO IS A FIRM BELIEVER IN POOR RIGHTS

SAW SOME DRUNKS PICKING ON A HOMELESS MAN, SAYING, YOU ARE NOT A REGULAR AUSTRALIAN, YOU HAVEN’T GOT A BEER

AND FRED CAME UP AND SAID, YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE YOU BUNCH OF CRAZY DRUNKS

HE IS HOMELESS, HE CAN’T AFFORD BEER, HE CAN’T AFRORD WINE, LEAVE HIM ALONE AND FRED GAVE THE HOMELESS MAN $50 TO SPEND HOW HE SEES FIT

FRED SANG WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN OUR CULTURE IN AUSTRALIA TO DRINK AND TREAT THE HOMELESS PEOPLE LIKE DIRT, THE HOMELESS ARE JUST TRYING TO FIT IN

AND THEY BECAUSE OF TONY ABBOTT, THEY ARE FORCED TO EAT THEIR ******* FROM A BIN

THEY ARE TRYING TO FIT IN, TO SOCIETY, WHEN NOBODY GIVES A WINK

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN AUSTRALIA’S CULTURE TO DRINK ON AUSTRALIA DAY, HAVE A BEER, AND GET INTO A FIGHT, MAKES YOU A REAL AUSTRALIAN, I DON’T BELIEVE IN VIOLENCE IN THAT WAY

ENJOY DRINKING AND GETTING ******, BUT I SAY, NO VIOLENCE, I SAY NO VIOLENCE

WHY DO YOU WANT VIOLENCE ANY WAY, PEOPLE JUST END UP GETTING HURT, IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

IF YA WANNA FIGHT, TAKE UP BOXING, WHERE THE OTHER PERSON WANTS TO FIGHT ALSO

TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING, TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH CELEBRATING AUSTRALIA DAY, MATE, BUT KEEP THE VIOLENCE OFF THE STREET, UMMMMMMM ME WHO IS CRONUS HAS SPOKEN AND SPOKEN I SHALL

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S AUSTRALIA DAY MATE, BY ALL MEANS PARTY, HAVE A BBQ, ENJOY THE FESTIVITIIES, JUST LIKE ME

BUT BE GOOD PEOPLE, YOU ****** WELL SEE

AND THEN I WALKED IN THE ROOM, CRACKED OPEN A COKE CAN AND SAY HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY EVERYONE, AND BE GOOD

I
Feel
But a fool

I
Can not
Understand you

Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink

I
Have felt
Secure before

I
Wish that
I'd never ever

Said
The things
That I've said before

I
Wish I
Had been silent

Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink
Too much to drink

i ordered a bottle of local beer. they served me peanuts on the side.

for a joint this small they weren't one to skip entertainment.
sometimes they would host local bands.
sometimes they would have a dj.
sometimes they would host an open mic. they often weren't funny.

but often they would have just one man managing music.
he sat in the left of the stage, with a laptop and a mixer.
he always wore a denim jacket.
he was always served a bowl of nachos.
he always played the beach boys. at least once every night.

i didn't take him and the music in mind much.
even though i made music myself, i didn't take it in mind.
my business in the bar was always for the drink.
one drink, then leave.
i was a simple drinker.

what i did take in mind, however, is when the music stops.
i know that the rule within establishments was to always keep the speakers running.
the songs would often blend together, and songs that finished cleanly would always have a two second end gap.
no more, no less.

.

.

the music stopped in this particular night.
the group of teenagers singing pop chords halted in the middle of a chorus.
a second later the lead singer was on her phone.
another second and they were talking to the owner.

and after a moment, they left through the kitchen door.
they left their drums and their guitar.

i was one third through my drink.
i still had a dozen or so peanuts.
i called for the bill early.

and after a moment, the disk **** in denim entered through the kitchen door.
he took his stool from the left of the stage and set it in the middle.
he took the band's acoustic guitar and checked its tuning.
after a few moments he strummed away a song.
beach boys. god only knows.

i had no idea it could be played on a guitar.
he was no carl wilson, but brian would have been proud.
an acoustic guitar plugged into an amplifier loaded with reverb.
it saved the vibe of the night and everyone continued on drinking.

.

.

few months later i returned to frequent the bar again.
months before, i tried to quit drinking.

that didn't work, so i returned.
the bar didn't change.
the beer was still expensive.
i could still drink.

but now i'd look around a bit.
i'd stay longer in the bar to marinate.
i'd order different drinks, stay to watch the unfunny standup till the end, stay till the bell rings.
i would even talk to some of those who drink parallel to me.
small words. but sometimes they'd be interesting.

and i'd listen more to the music.
the bands that would play, the mix of the day, or even when they decide to just mic in the radio.
those were the months i decided to study music.
which meant listening.

.

.

the disk **** in denim played his usual set for this one
when he spilled his cup over the mixer.
and the music stopped in this particular night.

that set a few people aback when they heard the cup topple.
then everyone's attention was stirred after the music lagged and his mixer screeched.

but the dj kept his cool and quickly managed the situation.
he unplugged his peripherals to separate his laptop from the mess.
he took the mixer and set it aside, orienting it vertical to dry.
he took a cloth to the drink puddle so he wouldn't slip.

and after a few minutes of plugging in and setting up, he continued his playing.
he operated the mix on his laptop.
the continuing song
beach boys, don't worry baby.

that gave me a little chuckle then.
i finished my drink and ordered another,
so i could listen to the whole song.

.

.

i visited the bar days after the little incident. it seemed like the dj stopped working for a few nights, from what i can tell from bartender gossip and intuition.

i sat on the bar one afternoon and listened to both the radio and the bar gossip.

"yeah can i have one of these?" i ordered my usual.

"-----we didn't expect a reelection, especially since what we heard he done--" the radio blared as my drink was served.

"--he's not gonna be here for a few days, though, so you'll have to ask for your money in a while." the waiter told what looked to be the manager

"--news from california as an earthquake hit the area 12 kilometers from--" the radio blared as a couple walks in.

"hey, can i have peanuts?" i asked as the bartender approaches.

"---but to be fair, his mixer did break, so there's nothing much we could do and all---" he says as he hands me a plate of salted nuts.

i was taken aback. i finally knew who they were talking about. i kept my mouth shut as i listened to the sounds of the room.

"----relief efforts are being pushed as those who are displaced are--"

"--no i really didn't expect him to just leave, but i did know he had some girl trouble or somethin---"

"---news as oil prices skyrocket after the Bank of America---"

"---ehh that doesn't matter, but i didn't think of him as one who has troubles in paradise--"

"----Brand New Deals from the world's leading online market---"

"---still, does he have any other source of income? i thought his music work was just on the side and---"

i finished my drink rather quickly as their conversation went. i decided i've heard enough and left the bar.

.

.

i went around the malls during the afternoon. when night came i decided to go to the bar again. for a few more drinks.

i ordered a bottle of dark lager. they served me peanuts on the side.

there was a local band playing tonight. they sang a few ed sheeran songs and a couple pop songs from artists i didn't bother to learn the names of. it was a steady, casual night, and all the patrons were still and drinking.

i was seated on the left side of the bar counter. on the center was an old man, finishing his light beer. besides him was a teenager, in sketchy clothing, finishing a draft beer. on the rightmost side of the counter was a man in denim, drinking from a glass.

the two right in between of us stood and left, leaving me to stare at the man parallel from me. it was the disk ****, but today he looked like a customer.

i finished my beer and ordered another. i had the guts to change my seat near him. i struck a conversation.

"you're the dj in this bar, right" i said abruptly. he raised his head like he just woke from slumber. in hindsight, suddenly talking to him probably wasn't polite.

"yeah, yeah, i am." he said. he took a swig of his clear drink and gestured to the bartender for another. "i recognize you. You're a regular, aren't you?"

"yeah, i am." i said. "and i catch you a lot. when you mix and all. i like your playlist by the way." i took a swig of my beer.

"well thank you. not many say that." he says, as he takes another sip.

"no beach boys tonight?" i ask

"not tonight, i'm afraid."

"what do you think of tonight's music?" i ask him, suddenly. i took my peanuts and offered to share it to him.

"i think it's okay." he says, as he takes a handful from my plate. "you can tell the guitarist really likes the vocalist."

"hehe, he kinda does." i say.

"that's what they all have, musicians today. Lots of love." he downs his drink and gestures for another one. i could tell he was near drunk.

"what do you mean?" i ask him. the conversation turned nice.

"i see this band a lot often." he says. "i've talked to them, offered to help them mix once. They're good fellows."

"you're a working musician?" i asked.

"look, see how the vocalist makes eyes with the guitar man."

i chuckle. he shared that chuckle with me.

"i'm sort of a musician too." i told him. "i'm not a very good one, but i make music."

"oh, that's nice." he says, taking another sip. "lots of people are musicians, even those who just sing to their children." he says. "even the not so good ones. Lots of love, i say. These kids got ***** and heart to perform."

"and you?" i took a sip. "lots of love too?"

"Ha, yes!" his mood cheered. he stood straight and clapped as the song ends. i clapped with him.

"yes. Lots and lots of love." he says. "D'you think the guitarist and the vocalists likes each other for music or for romance?"

"well, i dunno. Do you?"

"Haha!" he exclaims. he takes another sip.

"well, i make music for the people i like, so..."

"as we do!" he downs his own drink.

the band was playing a slow, somber song.

"well, i'm a musician." he says. "i make music. i hang around in places, bars, parks. i hang out with friends. i have people i love."

he comes closer.

"if you make music, or art, or anything, you make it for people.
I make music, and i have someone i love.
and i make music for her. With her. About her." he takes a swig. "for her."

"it's not the same if it's not for anyone. Sometimes it doesn't feel right if you keep it to yourself. Hell, i think that's often the case."

"and she loves you for it?" i asked.

"her? she's wonderful. All i do is for her.
Just me and her and a guitar, i could not ask for a better audience."

the song ends. both of us clap.

"pleasure meeting you, good sir." he presents his hand for me to shake. "pleasure meeting a musician, and a regular."

"pleasure meeting you." i shake his hand.

he paid for his bill, and stands to leave. as he exits the door, i notice someone waiting for him. a girl, a bit younger than him. they embrace.

.

.

i haven't seen him play for the bar ever since then. though i'd like to  think he's doing pretty good anyways.

.

.

.

.

I was sitting in the den of our apartment with my LSAT study book and a steaming cup of Moroccan mint tea by my side. I had left work - sometimes too many hours of serving rich, inconsiderate people got the best of me and my middle-school self kicked into gear, faking a cough, sneeze, or whatever it took to get me out of that hell-hole. Luckily for me it was Labor Day weekend, so I was stationed at home waiting for Sam to get out of class, our bags packed by the door for a surprise weekend at the lake in celebration.

So when I heard the front door creak open around one fifteen in the afternoon, I was no doubt confused. Sam always came home around four or five, sometimes six at the absolute latest. At first, I panicked – grabbed my tea and nearly broke the mug when I dropped it, threw my LSAT book across the room, and scrambled to spread the rose petals that I was saving until the last minute out of fear of them wilting- “I’m so glad, I’m so happy,” someone burst out laughing. Strangely, that someone didn’t sound like Sam.

I tiptoed down the hallway as quietly as possible until I reached our bedroom door. I didn’t know how I should feel- scared, surprised, suspicious, shocked, maybe all of the above. I lifted my hand toward the door and with a flick of my wrist, pushed the door open until I could see two figures under a single white sheet in our bed. Our bed.

---------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------

I paced the streets of San Francisco aimlessly, waiting for Sam to call me, text me, anything to pacify the emotions arising within me that I had suppressed for so long. I left the apartment without her even noticing I had been there, she was obviously too busy with the mystery man to realize. I walked into the first neon-sign-bar I saw and inhaled the musty smell of smoke and sweat, familiar but not familiar at the same time, my own personal forbidden fruit.

I sat down at an old wooden table that had leather stretched across the top of it, metal bolts lining the edges to hold it down. I nodded to the bartender for a drink, “anything,” I said. Anything to take my mind somewhere else.

Looking around the decrepit bar and the people within it, I was immediately transported back to my early 20s. The sprawl of Chicago, the low-key streetlights, the hustle and bustle of a city in its prime, the late nights (or were they early nights?) that began it all, the first girl, losing my grip on reality, pawing the ground for traction and finding it coated in metaphorical baby oil instead, and finally, the move.

The waiter set my drink down on the table, donning a grin that was lacking a few teeth – like a puzzle with missing pieces that you try to solve, becoming frustrated with your own inability until you realize that it isn’t your fault. But everything is your fault. “Stop,” the waiter turned around as the word slipped out of my mouth. “Uh, sorry,” I manage, picking up my drink (a Waldorf?) and saluting him.

He looks confused but forces a smile nonetheless and walks toward another customer, a young woman with crescent moons of mascara underneath her eyes.  She’s a portrait of lost innocence with her yesterday’s curls coming undone and trembling fingers grasping her drink as though it were life support. Sam. Sam was the kind of innocent you had to admire from afar out of fear of corrupting it, but I was always one for unconventional living.

I looked down at my drink and sighed - to drink or not to drink, the burning question to my seething desire.  “**** it,” I knew there was no turning back the minute I raised the glass to my lips. The liquid ran down my throat like a fire, destroying the three years of sobriety I had accumulated with a single match that ignited the thought to drink even more.

She pushed you to this point. “I know she did,” when I realized I was talking out loud, I lowered my voice, “I know.” Are you going to let her get away with it? “Stop,” I threatened, even though I knew it was pointless. The whiskey flooded my veins and fueled the fire, the voices, the thoughts. You loved her because of her innocence, you know that. I knew that.

Her innocence is what drove me to her, you didn't find just anyone with that fleeting virtue that escapes too many of us too soon – I envied it, even. I hadn't had that innocence since I was young. It was taken from me by force and I grew up believing that free will was nonexistent. But it isn't. You can do whatever you want, it's okay. No. It isn't okay. It wasn't okay, even when I tried to convince myself that it was.

I slammed my drink back, letting the ice cubes collide with my teeth as I kept the last gulp in my mouth, allowing it to burn my cheeks and bring tears to my eyes. You wouldn't have started drinking if you didn't want an excuse. “I don't need an excuse,” I said, too loudly again. The portrait of lost innocence glanced over at me, forcing a smile and offering me false comfort.

She's the type you love. I know, I know she is. Now Sam is just like her – just like all of them. I found myself grimacing into the reflection of myself in the bottom of the empty glass. I raised my hand, but the bartender was already on his way after he noticed I was dry.

“Another Waldorf, sir?” He looked at me with his sunken green eyes, expectant.

“No, I'll just take two shots of *****,” I responded, smiling, “nothing else.” He smiled back at me, uneasy.

More? So you really did miss me. I'm ignoring it, I'm not going to listen. Yes you are. No, I won't. I refuse. Just wait, you'll see.

The bartender came back with my shots, one in each hand. I took one after the other and set a twenty-dollar bill on the table, “keep the change,” I said as I got up to leave. The young woman eyed me as I was walking out and I flashed her a quick smile - that was always how you drew them in.

I decided to skip the bus and walk home instead, hoping that the rhythmic beat of my steps would help to clear my mind. It didn't. When I walked in, I still felt the whiskey and heard the voices. I'm here to stay.

---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

“Saaaaaam?” I yelled, waiting for the click of her heels on the wooden floor.

“Hey babe, I'm in the bedroom.” Her voice was honey – sweet. Sickeningly sweet.

I walked toward the bedroom, “so how was your day?” I would be innocent for now. Come on, cut to the chase.

“It was good, I had a long day at work. I just want to relax. You didn't want to go out tonight, right?” She looked at me, her blue eyes glistening under the fluorescent light.

“No, I didn't. Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” I tried to sound as casual as possible. Yes, yes, come on.

“What is it, sweetie?” She moved toward me to reach for my hips. I flinched away. She knows.

“I- I know,” I stammered. “I know what you did earlier, with that guy,” I slurred my words together, partly from the alcohol and partly from the nauseating feeling in my mind. Yes.

“Oh,” that was all she had to say. Oh. A single syllable, the most effortless word in the English language – that was all I meant to her. Oh.

My blood set on fire and I released the floodgates, I didn't care anymore. “So who was he, hm?” I wasn't afraid anymore. You know what you have to do.

“Actually... it was Dominica,” I heard the words come out of her mouth but they didn't seem to match up. I must have heard her wrong.

“It was... a girl?” I tripped over my words out of disbelief. She must have accidentally said the wrong name, maybe she had been drinking, too.

“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” She had the audacity to ask me if I had a problem with her cheating on me. I had nothing left to say at this point, I was void of any feeling. Jacob, listen to me.

“Well give her my ******* regards,” I had reached my boiling point. She looked at me, her ocean eyes beginning to pool with salty tears. As she blinked, a torrent of them rolled down her cheek, leaving a faint line where the makeup came off – a scar, if you will. I think she half-expected me to apologize for the harshness of my voice, the way I always used to after I realized the effect of my tone on her fragile composure. I didn’t falter - this time, I had no remorse. Good.

“Jake, please,” was all she could manage to say. She pushed her jet black hair away from her face – strands had begun to stick to her cheeks from her tears. Even in her seemingly delicate state, she still held her nose to the sky, as if her dignity and precious reputation were resting on the tip of it – an invisible string connecting it to whatever ******* aristocracy she liked to think she was a part of.

Thinking of this and then back to the entire situation at hand, I couldn’t help but laugh. Hoarsely at first, but then louder and more pronounced – I was completely taken over with maniacal happiness. Scare her. Do it, Jacob.

Glancing up, I could see the look of bewilderment encased within her eyes. You're doing so well. She had been sitting a few feet away from me the entire time and upon seeing her fear, I leaned in until I was close enough to taste her cinnamon gum and whispered, “boo.” She jumped. I guess it did work like that, the way you’d see in the movies – push someone to the edge of their mental cliff and a simple syllable could force them off. Don't let her off the hook.

The rest of the act came easily.  I had performed my part too many times for it to go awry and had scared her too badly to even move, let alone run. You know the drill from here. I watched as bewilderment turned to fear and fear to desperation and I swear, if I could have taken a picture at the exact moment that her eyes begged for me not to, I would have. It was in that moment I realized it wasn’t me she wanted to run from, but herself, and that was exactly the way I wanted it to be. It makes the guilt easier, something I knew from experience. It's just a play, Jacob, that's all it is. Play your part. I did. I played it well.

It didn’t look like she would be speaking again anytime soon, so I repeated, “give her my ******* regards” and winked, a smile creeping across my lips as I walked away.

A couple feet from the door, I looked back at the lifeless figure laying under a single blood-stained sheet in our bed. *It was supposed to be our bed.

Here is something I learnt today
Be careful on what you spend your pay
After a day of fun, I did not think
And downed a pitcher of energy drink!

Got to the pub at half past seven
Drank Monster and Redbull until eleven
Finally home and sleep I think
But sadly not, bloomin energy drink!

What is this madness, I wiggle my toes
Why can’t I sleep , my eyes are closed
I peek and see all my clothes are pink
But still no sleep, bloomin energy drink!

Some fine ideas come flooding to me
Animation too seems just too easy
I wonder if this is the missing link
Nah, it’s the bloomin energy drink!

So check the web, will I be alright?
Paranoia seems so much worse at night
Dad is up, my eyes don’t blink
I’ll be fine he says, bloomin energy drink!

So never again, I’ll be a good Daughter
I’ll probably now just stick to water,
You can drink so much just from the sink
And no more bloomin energy drink!!

It was almost February and winter still hadn’t hit. I was beginning to
think that it wouldn’t arrive, and that spring was here. One evening as I was walking down the streets of the city I looked up to see a single snowflake falling down to meet my face. It was tiny and looked lonely, but a few moments later, it was followed by several more snowflakes. Sooner than later, the ground was covered in a white sheet of snow. and I was stuffing my hands in my coat pockets and pulling my hood on to brace myself against the bone-chilling wind. I made my way into a small coffee shop that was still open and was greeted by a short stocky man in his mid thirties with a dark, curly mustache and sleeves of faded tattoos.
“Hello” he said, his voice sounding deep and smooth. I pulled out my headphones that were burning in my ears, pressed pause on my phone and shoved them carelessly in my messenger bag.
“Hello”, I replied back with a slight smile, pulling my hands out of my
pockets and making my way to the counter.
The shop was small, but it had a staircase leading upstairs with more room for seating. The man who stood behind the counter continued to unpack small plastic covered packages, putting them away in cupboards and freezers. I pulled out my wallet from my bag and plopped it on the counter, feebly attempting to pull out my card with my hands shaking violently from the cold.
“What a night”, the man said, his eyes still focused on his duties.
“Hmm.” I said, nodding. “Can I get a 12oz mocha, please?” The man looked up from his package, and giggled coyly.
“Sure you can, sweetheart." He put the package that he was holding down below him, and began making the drink I had just ordered. My credit card held tightly in my hand, still shaking. There was awkward silence between us and I got the feeling the man understood I didn’t feel like talking. He finished my order, filling a small, white ceramic mug, and pushed it across the counter towards me.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head, implying no and handed him the cold card. He swiped it and handed it back to me, along with a receipt and a pen to sign. I signed the receipt, grabbed my coffee and headed up the stairs to my right. Upstairs, there was a large room with a dining room looking table and several chairs, and to the left, and a small hole in the wall with several cushions. I smiled at the welcoming spot, and took a seat. Pulling a small table up next to me, I set my coffee down, and rested my bag on the floor below me. The upstairs was completely empty. In fact; the entire shop was empty besides the man working downstairs. I took a deep breath in and let my head rest on some of the cushions behind me. Closing my eyes, I let out my breath and felt the warmth and the vast history of the shop run envelop me. I grabbed at the cup beside me and sipped at my coffee. It was still too hot to drink comfortably, so I set it down. Out of my bag, I pulled out my phone with the headphones still attached and scrunched into a tight tangled ball.
Untangling them, I placed each bud in my ear, and pressed play, continuing the song I had stopped when I had entered the coffee shop. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I sunk deeper and deeper into the pillows around me, the smell of old books seeping into my skin. Finally, I closed my eyes, and after a few moments, was sound asleep.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a man’s face, unfamiliar but comforting.
“Excuse me…” he said, with a wide grin.
I jumped with embarrassment; ripping my headphones out of my ears, although they were no longer playing anything. How long had I been asleep? And who was this young man? An employee of the shop? A customer?
“Sorry!” I yelped.
The man chuckled as I swung my feet around to the floor and pulled out my phone to check the time. Realizing it was dead, I scanned the room for a clock and with no success I asked the stranger “What time is it?”
He rolled up his sleep, and checked what to be a rather expensive watch. The man was dressed nicely, but nothing too formal. A clean pair of black jeans, a plaid shirt and a sweater over it. His hair, a dark brown looked thick and slightly curled. He ran his fingers through it as he responded. “It’s quarter past.”
“Past what?”
He blinked at me. “Eight…” he paused at my confused look. “A.M”
I gasped at the time. It was just past nine at night when I had dozed off.
Why did the short stalky man not wake me? Did he forget I was upstairs?
Maybe he assumed I had left, and just missed me doing so.
“I…I…” I stumbled upon my words. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, still
unsure who this man was.
“My boss told me you’d be up here.” He lifted my cup of cold coffee and
handed it to me. “I can get you a warm cup if you’d like. We don’t open for another half hour.”
I nodded, and with the cup in hand, the man turned and headed down the stairs. I gathered my things, smoothed out my shirt, tossed my hair to one side and followed the man down the stairs.
“My names Elliot” he shouted from behind the counter and the noises of the coffee machine.
“Ellie.” I shouted back.
A door swung open and in Elliot’s hand was a new cup of coffee.
“That’s a coincidence.”
I smiled nervously and took the cup from the man.
“Sit.” he said, nodded to a table.
I followed his instructions and set my cup down and pulled out a chair.
He stared at me for a moment as I stared at my coffee. After a long moment of silence, I started.
“I am so sorr-”
He stopped me and reached out, resting his hand on top of mine.
“It’s alright Ellie…really.”
I had a few questions but didn’t know where to start. So I let the silence
continue.
“My boss figured you needed a place to stay.”
I wasn’t homeless. Did I look homeless?
“Do you...have somewhere to go…?”
I nodded. “I’m not homeless…” I proclaimed. I couldn’t help but stare at
his hands. There was something different about them from the rest of the
man.
“I figured. You’re too well dressed to be homeless.” He smiled, and his
hands moved up and through his hair again.
“So, if you’re not homeless then what’s your story?”
My story? I didn’t have a story. I was a young single girl. Lonely. Living
on her own in the city. On her way home when a snow storm hit. I just stopped into the coffee shop to get warm, not to spend the night like some refugee.
“My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” he continued to grin at me.
I paused to think of an answer.
“I was just on my way home. Stopped in for a cup of coffee. Guess I didn’t
drink enough of it.”
He laughed at the comment, showing a set of pearly white teeth.
“Maybe it wasn’t a very good cup of coffee.” He glanced at the cup in front of me. I lifted it and took a sip.
“This cup’s better.” We both laughed softly, then found each other staring
for long while at one another.
“I’ll make sure not to tell my boss you said that.”
I took another sip. “I should probably go…” I said, standing up.
“Go where?”
“Home.”
He shook his head chuckling slightly. “Hang out. I’ll open late.”
“I don’t want to be more of an inconvenience than I already have been.”
Elliot reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it softly.
“Ellie.”
My eyes grew wide, and I felt my heart beat quickly within my chest.
“Let’s not play games with one another. Stay.”
I pulled my hand away, and bit my lip.
“I can’t. I’m sorry Elliot.” I grabbed my bag from under the table, and thew
it across my shoulder. “Thank you…” I said, thinking of his hands but
staring at the blue in his eyes. I turned around, and pushed the door open.


---------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

It was Valentine’s Day (or as I like to call it “Singles Awareness Day” ) and my friend had dragged me out to this terrible bar in the suburbs  titled “Distraction” My friend, who was newly single and “ready to mingle” laughed when she saw the big blue sign with the name.
“That’s an ironic name” she said, snickering.
I nodded my head and groaned as we headed inside. She was right. What was this bar distracting me from? If anything, it was drawing more attention to the things I was supposed to be distracted from by just existing with such a name. My friend walked up to the bar, leaned against a stool and ordered something sweet. She asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head no. After a few minutes of small talking with her, and watching her sip at her watered down drink, I noticed a young man walking towards us. The bar was dimly lit, and I couldn’t quite make him out but I sighed and turned towards the bartender.
“*** and coke” I hollered out to the man. “Pour heavy!”
I stayed facing the shelves of drinks, the different bottles organized by color and type. Whiskey, Tequila, *****. Suddenly, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and with a deep inhale, I turned; expecting some man with sleeked back hair and a bad tan to be facing me.
Instead, it was Elliot. Staring at me, standing inches from my face. I took a step back into a bar stool, and fell into a seat.
“Ellie” he said, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile for a moment too, but then I quickly wiped it away as the bartender slid my drink to the right of me. Before I could do anything, Elliot placed a few dollars on the counter.
“You don’t have to -“
“It’s fine”  He continued to smile widely.
I looked around the room for my friend, she was across the room playing darts with some broad shouldered man. I took my glass, placed the straw on the counter and gulped down about half of it in one drink.  
“Happy Valentines Day” he said, almost sarcastically following the statement with a slight laugh.
I felt myself smiling again and took another gulp. The bartender definitely poured heavy. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, and I clenched my teeth. I could tell Elliot was trying hard not to laugh.
“Would you like to dan-“
I bursted out laughing.
“Dance? Oh god, please. Don’t do this Elliot.”
He stared at me widely for a moment. “What are you so afraid of Ellie?”
I scoffed, and shook my head, taking another drink I responded
“I’m not afraid of anything”
He blinked at me, then ran through his fingers through his hair and breathed out loudly.
“Is it me?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this, or what he was really even asking. I stumbled on my words, stuttering. I finished my drink, and set the glass down on the counter.
“Another?” he asked.
“No...” I paused. “Thank you”
He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away.
“Ellie...Let me-“
I interrupted him and shouted out “space!”
He looked puzzled, then chuckled.
“What?”
“I’m afraid of space”
“Space....? Please elaborate.”
“Like the sky, and the planets and the stars and ****”
He laughed softly. “And ****...”
“Think about it. We have no idea what’s out there. We have no idea what’s coming for us. We are so small, comparatively.”
“So you believe in aliens?”
“I believe in possibility”
“Anything could happen.”
“Exactly! Right now, as we speak, the sun could explode.”
“Or, aliens could invade!”
“You’re really stuck on the alien thing.”
“It’s a possibility”
We both sat in silence for a moment, his eyes felt heavy on me. I stood up from my stool, our bodies were almost touching.
“I’ve got to go see if my friends OK.” I said, glancing over at her. She was still playing darts with the broad shoulder man. He had his arms wrapped around her, ‘showing’ her how to hold the dart now.
“She looks like she’s doing ok to me” Elliot said with a snicker.
I didn’t argue.
“What’s your last name?” he asked.
I shook my head violently. “Look, Elliot. You seem-“ I stopped and thought of how I wanted to finish my sentence, but before I could, Elliot grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“Ellie. I’m just a man. I’m not some comet coming down or some alien race a million light years away. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
I took a few shallow breaths, my heart was pounding. I tried pulling away, but Elliot just pulled himself closer to me.
“You said you believe in possibility. You can’t deny the possibility of you and me.”
“I...”
He reached up, and tucked a hair that was falling down my face behind my ear then stepped back, letting go of my hand.
“I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to help you conquer your fear”
“Oh?”
He grabbed my hand again and pulled me towards the door, I looked over to my friend, but didn’t fight him.
“She’ll be okay.” he said, still tugging me.
I followed him out the door and down the street. We stopped and hailed a cab, as one pulled up, he opened the door for me.
“Get in.”
“I don’t even know you. You could be taking me to some wear house to **** and ****** me!”
“Ellie. Don’t be so dramatic. Get in”
“Where are we going?”
“To the moon.”
“And back again?”
“We’ll see. Maybe once you get there, you’ll never want to leave.”
“It’s a possibility”
I stepped inside the cab, and so did he.

------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------


Once we were in the cab, the rush of excitement I was feeling in the bar and in the street had faded. Elliot handed the man his phone, which had an address written on it. The cabbie put the address into his GPS and started the meter as he drove on.
“So are we taking the cab to the moon? Or are we just taking the cab to NASA and then a spaceship to the moon?” I said sarcastically, my voice breaking from nervousness. Elliot put his hand on my leg, and sat back into his seat without saying anything.
“Who’s paying for the cab Elliot?”
He continued to be silent. I turned at stared out the window, I noticed the cab was taking us out of the city and I began to get a little worried.
“Can you please tell me where we’re going?” I asked quickly. I looked back at Elliot, he was sweating.
“Elliot? Is everything OK?” His eyes were shut and his breathing was heavy.
“I’m afraid of things in motion.” he muttered softly.
“Isn’t everything in motion?” he opened his eyes, raised his brows and then smiled at me.
“I mean, the world is always turning and we’re walking, or breathing. So we’re moving, no matter what-“
“Can you be quiet please?”
I looked back out the window again for what felt like a long while. Finally, the cab stopped in front a large abandoned dome like building in a town I had never been in. Elliot was quick to exit the cab, and circle the car to open my door. I stepped out, Elliot paid the driver and the cab drove away.
“So you ARE going to **** and ****** me?”
Elliot looked at me, and took my hand.
“I’m sorry about in the car. What mean by things in motion is like, cars and trains and planes and...” he paused, “and ****...”
We both laughed.
“I knew what you meant. I’m sorry if I was being difficult.”
He gave me a look and I nodded at him. He took me by the hand and led me closer to the building. We reached a door that had been boarded up.
“This doesn’t look like the moon...Or NASA...”
“Ellie. Do you trust me?”
“I...I don’t really even know you so-“
Elliot pried back at the board, slipping into the building through a small space and pulled me inside with him. The room we stepped into was a circle, and in the center; a large telescope.
“Does that even work?”
He squeezed my hand, then let go. Approaching the telescope, he stepped up a small set of stairs to a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and a few moments later, I heard a whirring and a low rattle followed by a deep sound. I felt a slight vibration and suddenly the roof was opening above me, exposing the night sky. On this night, the stars were bright, and the moon was full.
“Come here” Elliot called out from near the telescope.
I started to shake only slightly at the sight of the sky above me, I felt frozen and tense, as if I couldn’t move. Elliot made his way down the stairs and towards me.
“It’s okay Ellie.” he said, reaching for my hand and guiding me towards the telescope. We stepped up the stairs, and he stood next to me, still holding my hand as he adjusted a few things, looking in the telescope, then at me, then back through the telescope. He turned towards me, nudging me.
“Go ahead.”
I looked at the giant metal telescope, and shook my head.
“I really appreciate what you’re trying to do here but-“
He put his hand on my lower back, and pushed me towards the telescope.
“Just look.”
I put my face close to the telescope, an

In the cold
I sit alone
With myself:
Cup in my hands;
Raised it up, to invite
The sun, the moon and
My fathers, for a drink,
A drink, through the milkyway
A pause
A silence
Questions
Bewildering
Freezing cold
Teary eye
Curiosity fades -  the silence.
Come drink with me, my fathers
Come drink with me, morning sun
I seek friendship with the past
I seek wisdom with the past
I seek travelling mercies
A cup in my hands
Cold questions in my heart
Future, frozen in silence
Come drink with me, through
The many lights of the constellation,
To a future, of liquid beauty
Come drink with me,
The warnth of the    
sages, through this lean path;
Dotted with thorn piercing puzzles.
Bruised feet
Wounded hearts
Pilgrims surrender
The crown has fallen
Servants rule
Come my fathers
Come morning sun
For a drink with your son
Before I succumb to the many voices, in my ears.

he can't write sober.  the mind of a man who
drinks too much whiskey and touches girls without
blinking. whos body is cold no matter how large the fire in
front of him is. he just can't write sober. i feel like the girls he touches,
rough coarse hands on peach fuzz skin. tongues battling in
and out of holes in my cheeks. angry apathetic grunts and dissatisfied sighs. im afraid this is where my life is headed. i am afraid i am the girls he touches and bitterly touches and fiercely touches and
he can't write sober, but he doesn't always drink. sometimes
his hands shake too much to drink. sometimes he smokes,
sometimes he crushes up pills and snorts them. sometimes
he doesn't bother crushing them up at all, he downs a
stiff drink with three pink or white circles and he sits in a
chair in the living room until he can see his hands move
in front of him, until he can pick up a pencil without wanting
to snap it. he can't write sober, so he doesn't. so he waits
for his mind to come to a tachycardic rhythm and he writes.
and when he does, he writes and writes for days. he can't write
sober but when he's not sober he will write for miles, he will
tell you about why he touches girls like me with soft pink skin
that is fresh, that is easy to bite into, that is full of life and not
stained rough and harsh. he can't write sober, so when
hes not sober he will tell you her name. he will not be able to do anything but tell you her name, her name her name her name-
he gets stuck, when hes not sober. when hes nodding in and out
of consciousness. he gets stuck on her name. he gets stuck on how
she felt under his hands, they weren't rough and calloused when
she touched him. he gets stuck on how she smells, he tries to
speak it onto the page but he can't, not sober anyway. like lavender.
stuck on her name and the lavender, the pretty girls with short
hair that sort of look like her, her name, her name and the
lavender on her neck and her wrists. her pretty wrists. how she
left and she looked like a ballerina in a performance, grabbing her
coat and her hat to cover her ears. that short hair never covered her ears. she looked like a dancer. the lavender, her name and her name and her name like a dancer. holding out her hand for him,
her small pink hand, her fresh hand, and
he can't catch her sober. can't keep up with her movements sober.
can't smell her sober, can't say her name sober. but when hes not
sober, he can write it all down. nod in and out, the lavender, her
name, what was her name again? what did she smell like?
until he passes out in that chair, by that fire, i feel like the girls
he discards and the whiskey he drinks. he can't do any of it sober.
so he doesn't, he doesn't have to.
her name, drink.
lavender, drink.
like a ballerina, drink.
her name, drink. her name, drink. her name, drink.
her hands, drink. her ears, drink.

EXPORTERS in the agriculture and food processing business should take note of opportunities arising from six major trends set to impact the global food and drink market in 2017, ranging from traditional products like ancient grains to plant-based foods enhanced by technology, according to a new report.

The “2017 Global Food & Drink Trends” released on November 11 by market research service provider Mintel predicts that in the coming year, consumers will increasingly look for products that are healthy, convenient, and trustworthy. They will also search for food and drink that are recognizable, save time, and contain beneficial fruits and vegetables.

In addition, there are new opportunities for functional food and drink designed for evening consumption, progressive solutions for food waste, and affordable healthy food for low-income consumers.

Mintel identified the first emerging trend as the continued trust in the traditional and the familiar. Consumers “seek the safety of products that are recognizable rather than revolutionary,” even as they are willing to try “modernized updates of age-old formulations, flavors and formats.”

Manufacturers are thus encouraged to look to the past for inspiration, as ancient grains, as well as ancient recipes, practices, and traditions are forecast to continue to be popular.

At the same time, “potential also exists for innovations that use the familiar as a base for something that’s new, but recognizable, such as cold brew coffee,” the report said.

In 2017, the food and drink industry will also see the growing use of plants as key ingredients, said the report. The growing preference for natural, simple, and flexible diets is seen to drive the further expansion of vegetarian, vegan, and other plant-focused formulations.

Consumers’ strong health and wellness priorities will spur the introduction of more packaged products and recipes for home cooking that abound in fruits, vegetables, nuts, seeds, grains, botanicals and other plants associated with good health, said Mintel.

Technology will play a part in this movement, as can be seen in the use of artificial intelligence to develop plant-based alternatives to animal products, including milk, mayonnaise, yogurt and cheese.

The third trend is the global focus on minimizing food waste to align with efforts on sustainability, which is changing consumer perceptions.

“In 2017, the stigma associated with imperfect produce will begin to fade, more products will make use of ingredients that would have otherwise gone to waste, such as fruit snacks made from ‘ugly’ fruit and mayonnaise made from the liquid from packaged chickpeas, and food waste will be repurposed in new ways, such as power sources,” the report said.

Also a significant trend among consumers in the new year is to consider the “time investment” required in cooking or preparing meals.

“Time is an increasingly precious resource and our multitasking lifestyles are propelling a need for shortcut solutions that are still fresh, nutritious, and customizable and already we have seen so-called ‘biohacking’ food and drink that offers complete nutrition in convenient formats,” the report added.

In 2017, the time spent on — or saved by — a food or drink product will become a clear selling point, inspiring more products to directly communicate how long they will take to receive, prepare, or consume.

The study also finds new opportunities for functional food and drink designed for evening consumption as people try to calm down before bedtime, sleep better, and restore their body.

Products like tea can be enhanced with chamomile, lavender, and other herbs as a way to achieve a sense of calm before bedtime. Chocolate, on the other hand, can be positioned as a way to wind down after a stressful day.

Looking ahead, the study forecasts greater potential for more evening-focused innovations formulated for relaxation and satiety. And taking a cue from the beauty industry, food and drink for the evening can be infused with functional benefits while the consumer sleeps.

Finally, healthy food that is affordable to low-income consumers is enjoying a surge in market demand.

“Many lower-income consumers want to improve their diets, but the access to-and the cost of-healthy food and drink is often an impediment,” explained the report.

This will fuel campaigns and innovations to make it easier for lower-income consumers to fulfill their healthy ambitions, including apps to help people make use of ingredients that are on sale, including “ugly” vegetables.

“Opportunities abound for companies around the world to capitalize on these trends, helping them develop in new regions and more categories throughout the course of the next year and into the future,” Mintel said.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

I got to find me a drink.
It’s been fighting my gut for quite some time now.
I got to find me a drink.
I can feel it clawing up my throat.
I got to find me a drink.
It’s too soon, but it’s rattling my voice box.
I got to find me a drink.
It’s begging to be released.
Shouted.
Absorbed.
I got to find me a drink.
I can feel it creeping along my tongue.
I got to find me a drink.
Every day, it crashes against the back of my teeth.
I got to find me a drink.
I’m not thirsty.
I’m choking.
& Lord knows, love never goes down easy.

I drink and drink
So I don't have to think
I drink and drink to the brink

I drink and drink
To hide the pain
Now I write, slain in ink
Soaked in my blood
You wash down the sink

As you wash me down the drain
And rush out to the funeral rain
You understand the pain

Of why I drink and drink
So I don't have to think

i know what you wanted
under the light of the moon

the summer of summers,
a lifetime cut short too soon

that night that you kissed me
after the circus,
it felt like i finally had a purpose

your lips, my lips
one touch & i'm left wordless

parking lot seagulls,
but we rose above the flock,
swooning, swooping, & flying high like eagles

i don't normally just say things out of the blue
but with you it's natural, with you i just do

i don't normally like rollercoasters
but darling, with you i'd ride them forever
like a teenager loves her boy band posters

now that you're gone
i can't help but think i've done something wrong,
if i wrote all that i feel
this song would be way too long

i don't normally drink
don't allow myself to even think,
i don't normally drink
but darling, i'm wasted on you

sharing bites of mac & cheese
love, i'd let you back in
all you have to say is please

if i can't have you by my side,
i'd end up dreaming of us each night

i don't have you by my side,
they say i'm living, but i call that dying

i can't have you by my side,
if i told them you were, i'd be lying

getting tipsy 'til i'm dizzy
off the wine we once bought,
even while everything's a blur
it's only you i never forgot

i close my eyes
& can still remember the taste
of peach on your tongue,
when i'm old i swear i'll look back
& still remember when we were young

i don't normally drink
don't allow myself to even think,
i don't normally drink
but darling, i'm wasted on you

you left me for your darker days,
but darling tell me
were they brighter with me in them?

i thought we were fighting,
but it turned out we were just dying
tell me how it's somehow worse
that we were never playing or lying?

you had to go
when i wanted us to grow,
i wondered what we'd be like in the snow,
i'll never have a christmas with you
so i guess we'll never know

i don't normally drink
don't allow myself to even think,
i don't normally drink
but darling, i'm wasted on you

top off the glass,
"the sorrow won't last",
you should be here with me
laughing & dancing beneath this northern rain,
with nothing to lose & everything to gain

nothing feels right
knowing you were going to be here
until you decided you shouldn't,
how is that worse than the fact that you couldn't?

one...three...ten or thirteen,
whisky & wine
until i say "i'm fine, i'm fine..."

i don't normally drink
don't allow myself to even think,
i don't normally drink
but darling, i'm wasted on you

i ran from the cabin & into the woods,
i thought i saw us among the trees
what we once had, they never understood

running, chasing, searching, falling...
my friends had to stop me
& tell me it was nothing

i don't normally drink
don't allow myself to even think,
i don't normally drink
but darling, i'm wasted on you

i don't normally drink
don't allow myself to even think,
i don't normally drink
but darling, i'm wasted on you

When we are within the tavern,
we care not for earthly matters,
there, brows soaked in sweat,
we find ourselves among the gamblers.
What happens in the tavern,
where money is host,
you may well question,
and hear what I say.

Some gamble, some drink,
some behave without discretion.
But of the gamblers,
some are stripped bare,
some win clothing,
others dressed in ragged sacks.
Here, no one fears death,
instead they're throwing dice for Bacchus.

First comes the payment for the wine,
Then the drunkards drink in line:
They drink once for those in prison,
thrice for those a-living,
four times for all Christendom,
five for the faithful departed,
six for the sisters of loose virtue,
seven for the soldiers of the forest,
eight times for brothers in error,
nine times for the scattered monks,
ten times for the sailors,
eleven for the argumenting,
twelve times for those repenting,
thirteen times for those advent'ring.

For pope and king alike,
all drink without restraint.
Drinks the mistress, drinks the master,
drinks the soldier, and the pastor,
drinks the servant with the maid,
drinks the merchant for his trade,
drinks the black man, drinks the white man,
drink the wrong man and the right man,
drinks the settler, drinks the wanderer,
drink the fool, and the scholar,
Drink the poor, and the sick,
drink the slow one, and the quick,
drinks the stranger, drinks the exile,
drink the Jew and the Gentile,
drinks the boy, drinks the elder,
drink the brother and the sister,
father, mother, wife and husband,
by the hundred, by the thousand.

Six hundred coins have no duration,
when no one drinks in moderation,
although they drink with jubilation,
we receive vituperation,
And so we are in destitution.

Curse all those who slander us,
and may their names not be written the book of the just.

Wait
These aren’t my hands
These can’t be my hands
What are they doing?
No!
Stop!
Cry!
Repeat!
I’m ok!
I didn’t do it
He didn’t do it
Who listens?
It glistens
The pearl of sin
Nobody wins

Wait
Those aren’t my eyes
They can’t be my eyes
The horrors they’ve seen
Never gazed on by me
Surely not
Look away
No!
Stop!
Cry!
Repeat!
I’m ok!
I didn’t see it
He didn’t see it
Who scoffs?
It stops
Time itself
Puts lies on the shelf

Crash!
Who’s there?
With torn hands
And vile eyes
A terrible stare

     Drink
What?
     Drink.
No
     Drink.
Please
     Drink.
It’s poison
     Drink.
I’ll die
     Drink.
Why do you want me to die?
     Drink!
I want to live
     Drink!
     DRINK!

     Drink from the broken cup
     Filled with lies I spew while you sup
     Now you know the cruel tale I spin
My love, I hurt
     Such a cruel
     Cruel
     Whim

One day, I found myself falling like Alice
But without a white rabbit
Just me
Alone
Abruptly tumbling down
The floor having been decidedly yanked from beneath me

I found plummeting both terrifying and boring
The same panic over and over
Gets old after a time
Yet the bottom was little better
Devoid of a fluffy tail to follow
I have no guide in this empty place
Walled in with my thoughts
Hoping for a path to Wonderland

"Drink Me"

I'm not sure how I got here
Searching endlessly for answers
To questions that I have not even posed
Gazing helplessly at the chasm
Wondering if I can back out

"Someday you'll be Queen of Wonderland
Drink Me"

I was certain I could play the long game
Persevere to be better off in the end
Yet I lay here ******-knuckled
Having beaten solid rock
Hoping it would turn into
A Door

"You'll never leave if you don't hurry
Drink Me"

I hear tic-tock-ing through the walls
And I'm sure it's just the pressure now
I'm never getting out of here
No amount of wracking my brain
Will produce an escape plan
And it does not seem as though any creature
Will be appearing to assist
I am never getting out of here

"Don't be frustrated
Drink Me"

"Feeling stuck?
Drink Me"

"Drink Me"

"Drink Me"

"Drink Me"

All my poems are
Wet, stinky, and brown.
Last night was wild,
And I mean it
It was proper uncivilised,
Things were said that were stupid
Lies celebrated
And truth passed around like a *****,
It started slowly:
Smoking around strangers
Starting a conversation
With my beer –
she’s always so glad to see me
she makes me feel so special
like I’ve actually got something to say
More strangers come in
I think I’m overdressed
They’re all wearing sneakers & T-shirts
Advertising one thing or the next
In their eyes I must be a commercial for something too
Something silly, no doubt
Look, we can help each other
Let’s have a drink
What’s your name
I like football too
No, I don’t care about teams ..
Okay, I need a ***,
It started slowly:
One then another drink
Lifting our heads out of the infinite bed of boredom
Let’s see, let’s play
It’s dark enough to get personal
If only we knew how
Another track of dominoes to hear & say
I wish I knew some fascists
Agreeing is so dull & unproductive
Don’t you agree?
Oh, you need a ***
That’s fine, I could use a smoke
Maybe talk to some women
But they’re all so mad at men these days
I’ll have to wear a disguise
What could I be?
A lion
Or a peacock
Or maybe an orangutan?
Perhaps then they will tell me
Why they have consciously surrendered the greatest power they have over men
Was it disgust and disappointment
Or pure prophetic wisdom
Or solidarity with those less powerful among their kind?
I think of Angela Merkel and I am confused
I need help
I need serious help
At the bar
A shot & a long drink
A shot & a long drink
I accidentally catch my reflection in the mirror behind all those bottles and I don’t know who I am
I have a peacocks tail
Lion’s *****
And the face of an orangutan
And I’m starting to smell like a man
A shot & a long drink
A shot & a long drink
To cover it all
Let’s have a ball!
Embrace a lack of sense
Lemme buy you a drink
Tell me about yourself,
I’ll keep quiet, I’m interested
Wow, now that’s a story I’ve never heard before
I should write a book about you
Or a poem if tonight we happen to sleep together
It’s up to you, I don’t mind
We all do as we please
Until it pleases us to surrender,
It’s late, you say
I take it the wrong way and go for a ***
When I come back
I go for a smoke instead
And when I look for you
I forget your face
So I end up reading my poems to whoever listens
Which works just as well
Or badly
I’m using my drink as an ashtray
And then when I turn another page
I spill it all over my texts
Now all my poems are wet, stinky & brown
That’s how I find them in the morning
Stuffed into my pants,
I’ll take the pants to the laundry
Maybe they’ll come out clear & dry
And smelling of pomegranate.

Like gambling?
Take a risk,
Take a shot of whiskey
Take six
Your night could end badly
Or brilliantly

For me there is no gamble
I don't care what happens
I am a shambles
I am a shaman
This is my daily ritual
Call it habitual
It's not an addiction, unless its a problem
Is it?

No problem
Only a solution
This liquor solution
Could be the conclusion, to my night
Or an insight,
To a new dimension
A new realm of reality
Something closer to my fantasy

Realistically, there is no risk
I know where we're heading
I steer this ship.
Have a glass of gin
Have six.
I'll give you an endless supply of possible outcomes
You just take your pick
I don't care what happens.

I wanted to drink until I forgot
your scent lingering on my shirt when you would hug me.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
all your empty promises and bitter words.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
your cold gaze piercing my back when you said to leave.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
those apathetic eyes and self-righteous taunts.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
myself begging you to let me cry in your lap.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
how many times I apologized for my abuser's actions.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
the sound of my own voice.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
the sight of my tear-stained face.
I wanted to drink until I forgot
the scars branding my body with "failure".
I wanted to drink until I forgot
you were my mom once.
I ended up drinking myself to
death.

One drink, you think.
Not bad, you drink.
One more, right up.
Two drinks.
Hurry, you think.
Deep breath, you drink.
Third drink.
And fourth forth drink,
alcohol this night
will **** me, i think.
Not bad, you drink.

Barefoot baring burden, in the street again.
Fifth drink, you flirt, you drink.
The naked bottle, hiding in-a corner,
burning, trying to be.
(desperate).
Willing to see.
Six drinks and
*** things.
One more, before night.
I think:

To death we´ll drink.
In life we'll sink.

The glass broke,
and in a soft warm mist,
i think:
not bad, to drink.

When I drink

faded images appear,

silent, moving, attractive

filtered visions.

When I drink

that settled need,

gnawing reality

quiet departs

leaving little love.

When I drink,

you certainly cannot

know me the way,

I know I'm sick.

When I drink,

the fog I seek

envelops my soul,

blurs drawn energy

settles incessant.

When I drink

I will destroy

all that I love,

all that we believe

that new image of me.

When I drink,

I'll falter often,

while asking solace,

you'll hate me again.

When I drink ... I will die

Sometimes it feels so natural to let a man's hands run over my body, feeling every dip and curve and bump and bruise that exists.  It is almost as if his hands and his longing are physical manifestations of my new-found womanly confidence.  I have reached a point where I am comfortable in my own skin and ready to celebrate.  I want to celebrate like there is no tomorrow and do something a little crazy, a little stupid, live one more breath of this night and one more kiss of this dream.  Right now everything just feels so real and raw.  To feel a man's touch on a body still so young is nothing to be afraid of - it is something to cherish and hold dear, for it only happens a short while.

Sometimes it feels so natural to wear a short skirt and walk with a sway in my hips, each step with my heeled feet and long legs echo across the floor.  There is something in the reverberance that acts as a fire in my soul, the flames within as courage on the outside.  The sway of my hips work wonders as tickets to concerts, the pass to the front of the line, filling my empty hand with a full drink.  It is a drug of sorts and something that I cannot get enough of.  I take what is handed to me for the short while that it is available.  Wearing my short skirt and tall shoes, I sway my hips to the beat of a different drummer while I can.

Sometimes it feels so natural to drink to my heart's content and my stomach's contempt.  I drink to make the pain and the thoughts and the worries and the stress melt away as my body melts on the dance floor.  I become one with the music and one with the night.  Carefree and unconcerned I drink until it is dawn.  It feels so wonderful to live like there is no tomorrow with no regrets.  When I drink I drink to darken the past and brighten the future.  The sultry sway of my hips become the sloshing of a boat about to be capsized.  The running hands over my body turn into drunk fumbling and clumsy fingers.  But I drink while I can and enjoy while I can.

Sometimes it feels so natural to be so bad - defiant and strong and a will to do whatever I choose.

We lift this drink to the newly wed
We lift this drink those who're dead

We lift this drink to the athiēst
We lift this drink to the Holy priest

We lift this drink to the grudging father
We lift this drink to the loving mother

We lift this drink for our past sorrow
We lift this drink for more tomorrow

We lift this drink for one more night
but most importantly...
We lift this drink for ONE MORE PINT

Aye,..Uhh
where the ****...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..****..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..****, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..****..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..****..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..****..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up *****, & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah3) man..Aye

OFTR, we throwing a house party like we in the 70s era dawg, yeah we gonna have this **** jumping like Kid n Play dude.., mane
The whole crib gonna foggy filled up wit hella smoke, aye..Yeah ***** that dope..Yeah that good kush aroma dawg..The only thing you can really see is the fire at the end of the roll up..Everybody drinking yeah Everybody rolling up, Yeah everybody coughing & choking & (having fun3).. Yeah..my nigaa..Yeah we puffing on funky, Uhh.. Homie leave all the stress at the front door man..so
Don't bring no drama, don't bring no problems, don't bring no *******, don't bring no false ones, & don't bring no stank **'s please dawg..forget blowing ******, we got sticky icky grown organically, no pesticides Yeah mane..just straight THC Thats it..home grown , Yeah we..(having fun3)..relaxing kicking back Yeah kicking back a young ***** had a long *** tiresome day, now its time to unwind get high & have some fun..Yeah..man..Uhh..
Yeah, its time to roll up,Yeah, its time burn up, Yeah its time to po up..Yeah, its time  get super drunk..
(Yeah just having fun2)
(Have fun3)...man..

Yeah, we gone turn up tonight dawg, Aye we got 40s OEs, Aye we got champagne, clicquot mane,Aye..we got Budweiser, bud lights,coronas & 2,11s by the case load,..also *****, gin, & vsop..Yeah we getting ****** up like a white fraternity, please don't throw up mane,..make sure you eat..Aye mane, **** what people think about me I just live my life, who's the **** to tell me I ain't living right..nobody **** right..
(We having so much fun yeah3)..tonight   should be here dawg , come now, Noo we ain't stopping till the morning.. That's how OFTR party dawg..Uhh Yeah we party hard Aye..


(Where the **** at mane,Yeah where the drinks at,Aye4)...(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah3)..
/Don't stop,3../3...
ever *****..let's go..
Noo I ain't done wit this song no not at all
...Ohh, that's what you thought dawg, ****, I still got some more turning up to do.. Man I still got kegs & bags of marijuana that ain't even half way through we getting throwed ,like a football, Yeah we so gone mane..(Ohh3)..Yeah dawg, Let's go..
(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah3)

/(Have fun3)..Yeah mane/2
(Have fun3) Yeah..Uhh

where the ****...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..****..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..****, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..****..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..****..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..****..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up *****, & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah3) man..Aye




We doing what we want Yeah..we having so much fun man, we twisting & drinking we living free Yeah..we living freer..than they want us to be , Yeah..we breaking all the rules like **** Dat ****, Noo, we don't care about polices, noo, we don't give a **** about nothing, like **** all the laws homie, Naw mane,
/we just do what we want..(Yeah2..)/2
we gone kick back & roll up the whole pacc, Yeah man,we gone  wake up tomorrow & do the same **** again..Yeah man, we gone live it up..(Yeah, we gone have some fun3)..tonight.. (Yeah2)..Aye..Uhh

Where..(where the3)..**** at...Where..(Where the3)..drinks at..Uhh..(Where the2)..****..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Yeah
Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..****, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..****..(Where the3).. Drinks..Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane..
(Yeah..let's have some fun3)..Aye..

(Uhh..Yeah, Blaze up, burn up, drink up , po up, Yeah Blaze up, burn up, turn up, drink mo3)
(Have fun6)..(Yeah have fun4)..
Man..
Let's have some fun..Aye