dipsomania
Befuddled, bashed, boozed up. Stewed.
Funny, isn't it? I should add the disclaimer, funny as in weird, not funny "ha ha." Isn't that what they say? You get five hours of sleep a night, maybe less, over the course of the week, including today. You don't eat much as Friday progresses. That biological urge to consume seems suppressed. Bad week? Yeah, maybe. Bad because government extortion (also known as taxation) slams home like a missle the harsh reality that the lies and the thievery of "elected officials" strikes point blank inside the bank account.
Damn you taxes!
Money. I always put on that Bohemain facade and proclaim, "Hey, it's only money." I know better. Living within this corrupted capitalist system, I've learned too well. And here, in one of the most expensive cities on this mud speck of a planet, money is all too important all too much of the time. And, no, I do not desire to relocate my living space to my beloved (ahem!) N Train. I work therefore I pay taxes. There's a tariif, so dear citizen, quit the whining and cough up a hefty portion of those earnings.
Back to the issue-at-hand.
In the evening (a classic Led Zep song), you imbibe a little bit o' the old liquor. The Irishman in you calls for it. Yeah, yeah, you may not have an iota of the Irish in you, and you may be a female, which negates the "man" in Irishman, but count this as an allegory. Or something.
Ah, the spirits. As "The Tale of Dusty & Pistol Pete" by the Smashing Pumpkins plays, I sit here and play my fingers across the keys and I feel warmer than I actually should. Again, it's the sauce. The hooch. The inebriant. A slice of life plays out here and now and it seems so important to me to write this but as I pull back from my sotted self I see one small life among these millions ensconced in neon and streetlight and that constant underlying hum of white noise here in the city. I propel myself further and I picture the city below me, and there I see myself within that inconsequential, incandescent dot right there across the river from that slender central island. Further up, spinning and spiraling into the atmosphere, I see the world, this earth, and I have to smile because I see, I know, how small and trite this all can seem and can be.
But right now it's, like, a big deal. So I descend back into the limitations of my flesh and blood case of a body and the words come and come like a sneering keyboard deviant. Slather tongue across teeth and lick too-red lips.
Yeah, I thought I'd try my hand at posting an entry here when "the demon alcohol" swims in my bloodstream and brain. Tomorrow I will see, I'm sure, how little sense this post makes. But I will leave it up here unaltered, anyway.
Happy Saint Patrick's Day from the 25% Irishman in me to the Irishman in you. Erin Go Bragh. Right?
Let the waste cross the ancient trails to you
Far out beneath the sorrow clouds
Let them taste the bitter lost mistake of you
Let them cry out through your rusted scars
Funny, isn't it? I should add the disclaimer, funny as in weird, not funny "ha ha." Isn't that what they say? You get five hours of sleep a night, maybe less, over the course of the week, including today. You don't eat much as Friday progresses. That biological urge to consume seems suppressed. Bad week? Yeah, maybe. Bad because government extortion (also known as taxation) slams home like a missle the harsh reality that the lies and the thievery of "elected officials" strikes point blank inside the bank account.
Damn you taxes!
Money. I always put on that Bohemain facade and proclaim, "Hey, it's only money." I know better. Living within this corrupted capitalist system, I've learned too well. And here, in one of the most expensive cities on this mud speck of a planet, money is all too important all too much of the time. And, no, I do not desire to relocate my living space to my beloved (ahem!) N Train. I work therefore I pay taxes. There's a tariif, so dear citizen, quit the whining and cough up a hefty portion of those earnings.
Back to the issue-at-hand.
In the evening (a classic Led Zep song), you imbibe a little bit o' the old liquor. The Irishman in you calls for it. Yeah, yeah, you may not have an iota of the Irish in you, and you may be a female, which negates the "man" in Irishman, but count this as an allegory. Or something.
Ah, the spirits. As "The Tale of Dusty & Pistol Pete" by the Smashing Pumpkins plays, I sit here and play my fingers across the keys and I feel warmer than I actually should. Again, it's the sauce. The hooch. The inebriant. A slice of life plays out here and now and it seems so important to me to write this but as I pull back from my sotted self I see one small life among these millions ensconced in neon and streetlight and that constant underlying hum of white noise here in the city. I propel myself further and I picture the city below me, and there I see myself within that inconsequential, incandescent dot right there across the river from that slender central island. Further up, spinning and spiraling into the atmosphere, I see the world, this earth, and I have to smile because I see, I know, how small and trite this all can seem and can be.
But right now it's, like, a big deal. So I descend back into the limitations of my flesh and blood case of a body and the words come and come like a sneering keyboard deviant. Slather tongue across teeth and lick too-red lips.
Yeah, I thought I'd try my hand at posting an entry here when "the demon alcohol" swims in my bloodstream and brain. Tomorrow I will see, I'm sure, how little sense this post makes. But I will leave it up here unaltered, anyway.
Happy Saint Patrick's Day from the 25% Irishman in me to the Irishman in you. Erin Go Bragh. Right?
Let the waste cross the ancient trails to you
Far out beneath the sorrow clouds
Let them taste the bitter lost mistake of you
Let them cry out through your rusted scars
posted by Walls Falling at 1:44 AM
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