The old days

I drink because I'm lonely
like a knife to a vein,
like cattle willing to it's slaughter.
I drink to forget I have a name and a home and people.

I keep it up, quick and fast,
I am not sure if I like the way it feels
but I like the way my face contorts
and the Bull eats out my sleep-depravity.

I stumble from giggle to laughter,
among people that I know.
I feed them antidotes of my life to shock
and I'm pleased to still shock, and I like the reaction, and it calms my delicate moods.

I find a quiet wall to fall against,
outside the third or forth bar depending on the pre-drinking,
and I cry and I cry, like a tantruming five year old with no one to answer to -
as I am familiar with that.

I cry until my eyes swell and, blurry-eyed, make phone calls to friends,
incoherent texts and calls to worry people. I shout down the phone in the street
and stumble over a young lad on the pathway, sat, ankle high in his own vomit
and I jump into a taxi, without letting my friends know, and the 'I's get more and more relevant the more I drink.

The late night eatery lights are flashing as I pay the taxi to sit
and wait, something like a hotdog and mushrooms is purchased. In the taxi again,
I make small talk though I literally have not a clue as to what now.
The clock says it's 11.45pm, it's not unlike me. Ten tequilas with sour chasers to start.

I find the bed, the laptop, the Malibu and, swigging from the bottle, write about names I shouldn't mention,
places I don't care for and things that haven't bothered me in many months.
The night envelopes me, I smoke a cigarette in bed flicking ash wherever ash falls. I fall,
comatose, into slumber. The morning I feel fine, though the throat's a little sore.