International Writers Magazine:Dublin
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.
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...
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
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
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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