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The International Writers Magazine:Dublin Drunks

Dunkin Dreams
J Brooke

Dead Drunk in Dublin, set I'm up Joe, a drink, the pause that refreshes, you know, something, anything to keep my hands from shaking, a hard, 100 proof nail gun to bang those neurons into my stem cells, preventing my rotating bobble head from shearing loose from it's moorings...
Come on my brotha', a little liquid lovely libation to crank my nerve endings in, something distilled to help bezel in the demons tonight, late night, every night.

You remember me mate, wine, tequila, vodka, rubbing alcohol, lighter fluid, make some fiery shooters and shots and slammers and fuck it, I don't give a damn.

Gimme some asbestos to re-coat my exposed 220 frying nerve endings that are smoking and sparking, flaming out like one of those Space NASA fuckers roaring, rupturing, belching jagged flames out of its asshole as the violent bitch blasts past the vomit of the atmosphere, into deep black space.

Come on, help me make those son of a bitch yips leave me alone this full baying moon lonely evening so much like everyone before it...Top her off buddy, a little ice, a rack of gin, make it neat, on the rocks and plain and the cool lingo, oh yeah bar keep, settled in tonight, sittin' at my favorite haunts watering hole, got my seat belt cinched here at my very own monogramed bar stool.

Dublin Baby, post card flash, Shamrocks, Leppercons and thugs puking their guts out every where, ain't no jewel, same to a drunk as a Hell's Kitchen slum and ain't it cruel. Livin' the gutter life, an alley or a suite in a padded cell, sipping martini's right here next to the bars lit and jeweled pretty Frankie Avalon juke box, hey my man, my last five bucks, hold the rocks.

Blue light special, DT's and Happy Hour, blood on the walls, falling to sawdust floors, caviar and Bentley Town Cars. Boooooze baby, main line it, taxi cab confessions in a paradise of vomit blues, sick, crazy this alcohol, so familiar, a real friend along a wayside stop. Come on dude, just one more for the road, you know, just to get me through the night, to jack me right.

HEY, don't I know you, flashing back, moments, memories, who can tell, sex giggles and all, didn't we party fuck last night?...Were we that drunk?...HUH, memories, moments, misery and mysteries I will never have, you see, let me have my drug, a cocktail or three, two fingers up, sure man, make it EZ. I know you understand, were all members a the band, stringing ourselves out for one last stand.

Bay-Bee, porque no, por favor, re-freshen my glass, fulfill my dreams, extend my nightmares, got it, fuck, were those my screams?...Make it cool and real, a brown paper bag holding Satan and Hell and a bar image of paradise reflecting from an empty bottle of Muscatel...Breath it's sweetness, it's bitterness, it's still early, you know, sure you do my friend, drunk wards and straight jackets and padded cells and I love U.

Drinks amigo, for all a my new pals...Set them hard, don't be remiss, shots and gimlets, highballs and low balls and very chic names, you know baby, Tequila Sunrises, Manhattan Ice Teas, California Coolers and Sea Breeze, you tease...Johnny Walker Red you fool, Wild Turkey too and don't forget my buddy Margarita Ville...It's all good, beautiful and just so, so so fucking cool...Big glass, small glass, lick it off the floor, suck it off the bar and who the hell cares, fill her up bro, I got major wild men with spears to chase away, you comprende my tears?

Merlot, Cabernets, Burgundy's and Beaujolais and billboards flouting lies of young gorgeous drunks frolicking on beaches, discos, lithe bods pretty and tan, bullet proof beauties living false Cosmo lives, while the drunks are shrieking from nightmare boogie men. Pretty lost models screwing in iron lungs all while the booze and cigarette men joke and jive, seven deadly Corporate goons before a Congressional dog and pony show of sin, hawking disposable people of busted dreams within their creative lies, where does the Conga line begin.

Coffins, corpse amd pain left for hell, weeping kids within the underworld of deceit, morticians, DC pimps and the politico's and who will pay when the final bells tolls. The poor foot the bills for a nations woes, nada the elite who cruise on corporate jets above the flak, while the disenfranchised sick and addicted vaporize and welfare checks that pay the price of cancer wards and chemo creeds as one hundred million corpses line lobbyists pockets filled with greed.
Silk ties, tailored suits, shinny shoes, DC pitchmen oiling the gears and cogs and secrets harbored within walls of gold, where are the goddamn firing squads?...Morticians, senate and congress whores, where does the truth lie, these men, these hollow digital whores, soiled in there own piss as victims are crippled and bent and broken rotting at the end of an Alki's cell call, as stung out skeletons lay naked in trash heaps on skid row cause some crazed poet thought it romantic and sweet being a alki on some MTV video...that in reality was more a visual Methadone blip gone wrong, then any other lost and forgotten sweets of the twisted antham of their melodic song.

Big business, Seagrams, Coors and Miller Lite and TV models with country club smiles...and what about Thunderbird and White Lightening turpintine blues, lets cruise, grin amused, as the assembly line cranks out distorted souls and massive profits for Wall Street Thrill Mills, my man chill, this Bud is for you.

But I don't care no more, no more, cause I'm trippin' and dippin' and I'm boozin and I'm losin my soul and tearing my broken heart apart and now as the drunken moon grins, oh well I say no more...Cause I got my bottle tonight, my fix, my liquid mix...And I dream drunkin Dreams...And I smile drunken smiles...And I stumble drunken steps...And more than likely, I die tonight a drunken death.

© J Brooke October 2007

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