Something about the allure of the alcohol and the blackout passed out aspect of living a life as an, “Addict.”
Some may say, oh some may say, these drugs and chemicals are bad for you but I say rather. Splatter the clatter with talk about the things these drugs and chemicals like alcohol do. Soaring through heights like magnanimous steaming cleaving being. Pure being, just distilled in cans and spirits around the world.
The downsides of death and homelessness are just misnomers of a society that gathers we and steeps its tea in the richness of expression of being in the world but I say rather the true essence of being is the death, the drunk, the high, the life, everything in-between soaring and diving like an eagle steepled & stapled to the roof of the ecclesiastical acrobatic fanatics fan club email list shove it up your fist until it doesn't fit anymore.
Gaping.
Raping the dated aspects of refracted impacted reality singing on we song the wrong locket to talk to it again like a long lost son or daughters, dead veterans and maidens whipping him for the sin on the mantle, the halo swept deep into the bereft clanging of insane lamented depraved insane brains twisted to the core of the door leading them back home, or out the other way, onto the street, deep, like her wrist scars.
I remorse, of course. But detour from the murderous, suicidal recital every day repeating on like a BPM of one-hundred and hate. I can't devise a plan quick enough to spin, write, draw, animate or rape my way out of this cage I've trapped my life inside of a small white unchecked box next to insane on everyones Christmas shit list.
Widening this slit wrist cursed Christmas kiss I find Peace.
In her pain. Her confusion, I feast like a beastly rage of delving lava quicksand demanding the rental check slips, receipts, and bank records, record this. Take to wish the delving of self in we, but the test of limitation will remain un-satiated in the regression of formality in we, delving, delving, delving...
Maddening, the sliver of focus remaining in the brain of my command the demanded repent upon the broken altar of my mothers womb.
Stitching the sore in core atomic trauma while the sauna and steam drain on in the back end of every song, talking on, to the beat, on repeat, until the elves come out to meet.
