dry land bad poetry

real men need only food water and love  
but I whittled that down  
to food  
water  
and liquor
 
then
two weeks back
decided to knock the drinking for a month  
after one too many quiet talks from people who give a shit  
 
so stopped
just to prove ‘em wrong  
cos I’m a prick like that
but three days in  
my skin crawling  
stomach shitting liquid
eyes sunk back in to my head  
and riding an angry dark hole where my laughter used to be  
I knew the fucker’s must be right  
 
had to go somewhere quiet and own that truth
 
went down by the river  
sat
let my feet trail in the water  
and kicked ‘em like when I was a boy  
lifted my head  
looked around at my grey grey world
not a break in the cloud of it
and spoke aloud to myself  
“I think we got it wrong brother  
 
I think we never had control”  
 
never been sure  
why I talk to myself that way for the big talks
but always hope one of those voices  
stays sane
 
stood up
still stone-faced empty and dull
walked back through the trees to the truck  
another hour down
not opening a bottle of anything  
 
 
 
 
 
being sober 2 weeks feels like bad poetry;
 
no fuckin 'point
 
no fuckin' end