I figured giving up drink means giving up writing as well as all the profound and stupid experiences that go with it. But then I thought fuck it, I’ll write about the drinking and the profound and stupid stories that came from it.
So, I thought about doing a book.
Then I realised, like all my attempts at ‘books’; it’ll never get finished and won’t amount to much more than a few short stories anyhow.
So I’ll give it a go here.
I’ll start at the end, probably continue with the start, it’ll all get published in reverse order and can’t be any more confusing a time line than had I tried to write it as a book in the first place. Plus, it might get read… a bit.
And so I begin with a poem from last night.
Alone, without a bottle, for once in a very fucking long time.
It started fairly genuine and smirked back at me by the time I’d finished.
[Thanks to M. B. LeClerc for the title "You Only Drink Once" (...and we never did again...)]
Booze Stole All My Money (Booze2Go).
Booze stole all my money.
I wanted to write, but it stole all my words.
I wanted to sing, but it stole my voice.
Booze stole all my money.
I wanted to walk, but it stole my feet.
I wanted to love but it stole my heart
I wanted to come, but it stole… my cum.
I wanted to fuck but it stole my desire!
I wanted to light the world…
I wanted to right the world…
I wanted to fight the world…
I wanted to see and feel and be felt,
Own, be known, be owned and know…
I wanted truth and honesty,
It stole those and reality.
and,
booze stole
all my money.
