After
my stomach churns
My
eyes lurch into focus
My
breath smells like a badgers arse
The
sick is crusty on my stubble
Everything
is fragile
Wobbling
to and fro, I make my way downstairs
Empty
cans, fags and stress
I
pour myself a large one,
need
to obliterate this mess
It
goes down too easily,
so
I reach for the bottle
My
senses are slow, but the beast is being fed
Hair
of the dog, my arse
Soon
pissed as a fart and loving it
Drawing
pictures in my mind
The
beast is destructive, the time is now
Warm,
rancid, bubbly filth
Alcohol
is running through my veins
The
familiar feelings return
I
am the king of my destiny
Copyright
© Ian Boyd 2002
No comments:
Post a Comment