Chained on the Bed
thereve been
countless mornings where
getting off bed appeared
pointless;
even more mornings,
where the desire
to get up, fight the world,
enter another fruitless war,
was not there.
the sun could shine bright
outside,
or, it could be raining
heavily,
drowning the ducks in their
ponds;
however,
the blanket was warm,
the mattress soft;
wherefore get up,
walk around,
see people,
talk,
live?
when theres nothing
to live for?
I would only get up to piss,
vomit, and drink;
without that first vodka and orange
juice,
I couldnt even breathe.
after the third glass,
I felt somewhat alright,
although, still,
I felt the elephant
sitting deeper on my chest.
the beers and the bourbon came later
in
the early afternoon,
as did the pot, the blow;
all efforts to give the endless
fight
some purpose, some real
reason
to go out there, cry tough,
make it happen.
despite it all,
no reason remained for long;
everything always
evaporates,
just like the clouds of blue
smoke
produced by every cigarette,
by every glass-pipe.
within dreams theres no
death,
no desolation;
Emilys still alive,
our child is now 6 years old;
we live by a lake, surrounded
by tall mountains.
all alone, in the midst of beautiful
nature,
and were truly happy.
then, the alarm clock rings,
I try to break it, but,
I cant; always something to
do.
job interviews that get me
nowhere,
writing that often has too little to
say,
outings with friends that often turn
tedious,
reading the old masters that on occasion
had something great to say.
and Im all alone,
exploring the darkness with
a half-empty bottle of bourbon in my
hand,
still searching for that one glorious
moment in life
that will make everything else
forgettable.
Cockroaches mating under the
Mattress
the only fucking in the shooting
gallery
was that of cockroaches;
we slept in worn-out, burn-out,
torn-out
mattresses on the unwashed for ages
floor,
and next to us
a few cockroaches did their
thing
to make more of their kind
to pester us for all
eternity.
and we were too high to see,
let alone procreate
ourselves.
we could barely talk
coherently,
how the hell were we supposed to
enact
the precious act of
penetration?
only a couple of the fiends
could still get it up,
and only a handful of the
women
were ever in the mood;
those were usually the
coke-fiends,
the ones needing uppers.
for the rest, who went for
downers,
sex was out of the question;
and we didnt really miss
it,
to be frank.
sex can lead to pregnancy
and pregnancy can be fatal to many
parties,
when it involves parents addicted to
many
natural and chemical substances
that
are meant to destroy the mind, kill the
body,
and elevate the soul.
so, it was only the cockroaches fucking
in those
worn-out mattresses of shame and
blood
and it was alright; they do have
souls, too,
as someone once told me during a wild
drinking night.
other than that, lets be
honest,
I dont have much else to
say;
I never do, but,
after having lived in nothingness for so
damn long,
Ive learned to express it in many
words
and in many forms.
its the result of living in
shooting galleries,
sleeping junk hallucinations off next to
procreating cockroaches.
Flying Needles
dragons outside the window,
once again,
unable to escape, to evade
the lingering scent of
bourbon
and junk.
all those months gone by,
the broken glass-pipe,
the aluminum foil bongs;
its all gone,
dropped into the abyss,
there to hide from the sun and
air,
alone, forever and ever.
the darkness rises,
mist falls;
familiar sight,
yet, theres no bourbon to take it
away
momentarily.
poisoned drinks
in fancy nightclubs,
dancing along the mindless
youth,
eradicating, temporarily,
the all-engulfing fog.
like a veil over the entire
town,
the pain comes back,
the trembling of the arms
the sweating.
no escape,
once more;
trapped.
like always.
and she cries from the bed,
hidden under the blanket,
like in those days she was still around
and well,
begging for one sober night,
one morning of normalcy.
theres nothing like
that,
never was; will it ever be?
constant questioning of the inquiring
ghosts,
revengeful shadows still crying over
spilled gin;
one more drink,
one last night to escape.
the final chance.
no ones around;
only the fading sun,
the exploding moon.
the dragons outside the
window
return.
more vengeful and determined
than ever before.
Harrowing Moments of
Bourbon
there was always one
coveted exit,
the one true desire haunting
young, innocent minds;
nothing was ever truly
accomplished,
living for the sake of
surviving,
breathing to satisfy the well-tuned
mechanism.
yet, the scarce moments of
yesterday
have defined a new future
meant
to be under a cold, lonely
bridge
in some undefined city that
has
yet to be risen from the
dead.
all those nights of heavy
drinking,
the pleas from warm lips I used to
adore;
the mornings of insanity,
when the bugs crawled under my
skin,
I surrendered to the madmen and the
alien cops
nothing ever really changed,
despite
the dull attempts.
I still remember coming home
holding an empty bottle under my
arm
and still wearing the condom
from a night I had forgotten even
then;
she saw me, cried, punched me
wild.
she didnt leave, not even
then.
she had guts, my Christine;
a testicular fortitude I havent
seen since.
she was not a drinker, a
self-loathing drug abuser.
no, she was pristine, clean,
sober, perfect.
wherefore we stayed together
for
as long as we did, Ill never truly
know;
she never explained it on the
phone,
when she announced shes
moving
to another city.
it was finally, definitively,
unquestionably
over,
and I cried, for the second (and insofar
last) time in my life
I shed real tears for a
woman.
even the needle didnt scare
her,
my brief visit to the Bar;
she was the one that brought
me
back down to earth, to life.
why did you do it, Christine?
I wished to stay there,
I was about to drink whiskey with
Dylan,
beer with Charles. the needle
had
been warmed up by William
himself!
you brought me down,
cured me; saw through
the cold turkey, the
desolation of the painful
lust.
I wish to hold you
one more time;
as I remain in the dark,
avoiding the Athenian heat
wave,
I think of you, of
the bourbon nights I made you
cry.
when I watched wrestling for a whole
weekend,
and all you wanted to do was for
us
to go out for a walk; I was too drunk
and stoned
to move a muscle, and yet,
instead of nagging,
you came to lie down next to
me,
held my hand in the dark,
told me
its going to be
alright,
for you knew the emptiness
within.
all those years gone by,
so many bottles emptied after you
left,
the needles, the glass-pipes.
nothing
ever truly ended. only
postponed.
and yet, its you I still
miss,
the one thats still alive and gone
away.
the one set of lips I wish (and still
can) to kiss,
where are you, except for in my
brightest dreams?
the days ending,
afternoons coming and
Im
going out drinking
despite it being 45°C
outside.
at least, Ill get
drunk pretty fast
and wont have to remember
anymore.