The Dead Crazy Life Memoires #1

I was nineteen and on some form of mission.
Life was sex and drinking,
the same as now, but without the care.
She lived halfway inbetween the pub circuit
and my mould ridden room in a shared house.
At 2 o clock everynight I'd knock at her door
to be greeted by a bitter-faced homosexual
in rather unflattering pyjamas.
I'd walk straight past him and in to her bedroom
where I'd leer over her swaying until she awoke.
Despite my lack of tact she'd invite me in to bed
where we'd fuck that teenage-drunk fuck
whilst the sun came up.

On one rather special occassion I got there
around 3 am, and let myself in.
There was no one in the lounge
so I dumped my kebab across her carpet
then felt the familiar notion around my throat.
I threw up an evening of snakebite and black
over her sofa and moved in to the kitchen
to take a drink of water.
Climbing in to her bed she danced her hand across my thigh.
I took her from behind and left her sleeping.

All of a sudden that door was no longer answered
and the tight ring of gay design students
started attempting evil looks and the rumour mill.
I was a cunt drinking with cunts,
so it was no more to me than something
to shake up the outdoor tables
over a few pints of guiness and a packet of 20 mayfair superkings.