Booze Lens 


magical moments of
booze, of songs connected to moments
good and bad, and as the
bourbon flows, one bottle down two to
go, memories emerge from
the subconscious abyss, vivid as
if things happened this
morning, despite the years gone by - in the
inebriation you
discover the good, the bad, the
significant and the unimportant; through booze
lens you view the world
as it is, was, will
be, former relationships and friendships become
clear, real. blacking out is as close to
death as we’ll ever be, without the real deal, and it
contains the flash, life’s moments coming
back to life either to haunt or comfort you; drink
up, get acquainted with death so you
can conquer him come hangover.



Nagging 


“one of these days, you’re gonna
drink yourself to death,” Christine accused me. I
was nursing a bourbon-tequila hangover; had come
home from the bars with an empty
fifth in my
pocket, and some woman’s underwear. “you’re either gonna
die like Dylan Thomas or some whore’s boyfriend will
bludgeon you.”
from the couch, I could hardly open my eyelids, let alone
lift my head to face her. my tongue had turned into a
wet sock filled with ratshit and a construction crew had
invaded my
brain, trying, probably, to free the fucker from my skull.
“what did you do last night? who did you do?”
“didn’t do anyone,” I managed to mutter, but the words would
hardly be enunciated with no spit left in my mouth. “water,” I gasped.
“get it yourself,” she snapped, all too vindictive. after a minute, she
rolled her eyes and went to
the kitchen, to grab a bottle of
ice-cold water. I chugged it, finally my throat ceased to
mimic a desiccated wasteland, then my eyes
bulged. despite the throbbing pain in
my head, I dashed to
the bathroom and emptied my stomach’s content in the
toilet; perhaps, some pieces of intestine, too, some
red stuff floated down there.
“one day, you are gonna drink yourself to death,” she repeated when
I returned to the living room, and flung myself on the blue foldout couch.
“maybe, that’s the goal,” I replied, and stretched my arm to grab a
bottle of rotgut from my bookcase. “seriously?” she asked. “are you
gonna drink now?” “hair of the dog, baby. woof woof,” I chuckled, and it
almost sent me back to the toilet. “I don’t know why I’m
staying with you,” she said, with a solemn tone.
“perhaps, you love me,” I sniveled, after a hefty swig out of the bottle.
“maybe, you’re right,” she groaned. had I not
been hungover as fuck, I might have fathomed the significance of
her words. in the state I was in, I just shrugged it
off; never said it back. I just drank
her yammering away, then I had to drink her memory
away lest I drowned in regrets. booze still hasn’t
killed me; I’m doing my best to
prove her right.