Lick my teeth, test my patience.

September 30, 2014 § Leave a comment


What can I say? I think that that one might just leave a mark. You can’t really be sure until morning. Times a great healer I hear but there are something’s that it can’t get done. I thought back over it. Every past glory. Every one. Every spitting and strutting teeth licking moment. How quick I was to forget. That’s the thing with getting what you want, don’t you find? You simply do not want it any more. Because, really, it’s not what you wanted in the first place. What you wanted was the kill, the chase, the thrill of the moment in which you think that the future hangs in the balance. Because that’s what makes you feel alive, making it happen, snatching it all back, stealing time. It twists and turns up and I start to wonder why I have taken to talking shit again. Back on the horse. Back preaching from the pulpit, dead are the days of the street preacher.

All I need now is a little direction. I’m hopeful and I don’t know why. As I’ve said before my hope has always been misplaced. What brought you here? If a person was hunched and muttering this on the tube you’d pass them up, turn up your music, fade out and in back to the bubble, your bubble, your comfy commuting home. It’s not art. It’s not. It’s just bullshit. My alcoholism is the only thing justifying it really. Bollocks. It’s all just fucking bollocks really. I sit and try to make my peace with it. I agree. It’s just bullshit. It can’t be any worse than it was though. I’d like to think that I’m on the other side. I’d like to think that I’ve pushed through whatever it was that had me so low down. But I’ve thought that before.

I’m sick of waking up like this. Another strange bed and that strange moment in which I find myself lost. It’s bliss, the ignorance of it, before you remember. You remember why you should be ashamed. You remember what happened and where you are and what you’ve done and it just sinks and rots in your gut one more time. You make your excuses and stumble and fumble your way to freedom but there’s no escaping it. It’s a localised thunder storm. It’s a mess in your mind and darling, it’s all yours. You sweat it out and the smells combine to mix and muddle up your mind some more and you promise yourself that that’s it. The lines drawn under it. It’s over it’s finished and that’s it.

That’s my point. I think at least, that that’s it. How can you trust your mind? I’ve learned that I can’t, that’s the only thing that I trust it on. Because one second it tells you you’ve hand your last ever drink and then it tells you to line them up. Your brain is a liar and so am I. Bollocks.

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