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scotching the guard…

you can drink to survive or to relieve pain or to drown one’s sorrows in waves of bitter bliss ignorant of how the end is met when blacked out to the extent that nothing makes sense in an altered state as ill-repute washes in wondering what steps are next before the floor becomes wetted with ugly stomach’s contents again overturned upon the figurative toilet that anywhere can be when soiled with an oblivion that sees an empty bottle as opportunity for more, but most of the time i do not wonder only to wander between bars back and forth on tipsy toes each time soused and towing the line that i am fine with my decisions no matter how horrible it gets to be this pathetic sac of shit crawling the now dirty floor limp with having dropped out of the former states of sobriety as a sober society holding back my monsters dancing and doing flips inside my head caustic because of their rampant behaviors that i have chosen, each a voice can speak in my darkest fears aloud though silent as the general law shuffles these things along in a curious drafted drifting that is difficult to catch without some manner of pain or suffering somehow inflicted conflicting any a logical sense and or reason against the feelings sharp and lingering while the solid standing being waits for whatever comes into this phenomenal existence tense with both a past and a future expectation made as formal standard… we need to protect ourselves from strikes of painful data too subtle to be certain was meant for our collective humiliation when it is revealed how terrible we are to each other in the parties held within these existential vacuums of our lives suspended as though the good times could be a readily available commodity to be consumed with the right marketing schemes in a place to make the real dream go to waste with no patience left to give only to take as we pay our way into the pain machine once again what with a little blood and rage shed at the time, tainting the escape with hatred and anger as violence enters into your picture of how the raging alcoholic will beat and abuse the people who appear as mere puppets now projected from within their heads as the idiot flesh yields to demonic and perverted demands in a pursuit of Dionysian pleasures vague and blurry through lenses of the guilt and betrayal created when the substance used dominates the host whose guest has refused to respect the remains of those who would die because of its’ power, and it seems once tainted there is only oneself left to guard against a binge and purge situation that beckons with siren song the ones lusting after a ghost of the good time once had back when in the youth and vigor mutilated the figures of friends and foes alike floating barely above water in this holy see whose sight of truth maintains truly unseen like some mad wizard behind the curtains and veils of myth and legend with many names moving along to the bare rhythms of mere whim…

Thanks, khet.