Shots, Shots, And Aftermath Realisations

I’ve always wondered why
violence tastes like
crumbled cigarettes in ashtrays…..
 
The sound of swept glass
swishes and clinks  
bells played by tinkerbelle gone rogue
each scrape and tinkle is met with a silence as red as my eye
as swollen as Jim’s head
as black as Dave’s balls
 
The sweet scent of peach schnapps lingers on my polo shirt
its collar torn
and stretched
I’m nursing a pint that consists of
three quarters Cuervo and a quarter of
the last dregs of my sanity
 
Jason sits there blinking in slow motion,  
his normal hyperactive demeanour crushed under the weight
of the hell we just waded through
 
I poke at the torn flesh in my arm
pulling out a couple shattered shards or someone else’s bottle
the suction of flesh on glass is gooey
makes
my stomach churn
like bad butter…
 
for a victory drink
we were sullen and brooding
because the only win we had
was that none of us were dead
I chuckle into my alcoholic
delirium
 
tell Jim he looks like he’s growing
a tumour that’s  
as sexy as his mother in law  
from the side of his fucking head
 
make some joke about Dave blocking low kicks with his ball-bag
 
smear blood on Jason’s face because he got out unscathed.
 
Later my breath ragged in my lungs
I fall to my side
Ashleigh’s stargazing at the ceiling
ropes of cum drying on her tits
her cheeks rouge red
body still trembling
 
she snuggles into me
whispers that I feel like the sun
asks in the same hushed tone
why I revel in the fights so much
her fingers resting on bandages
 
I don’t have the heart to tell her
it’s the only thing
that makes me
feel
alive
so I kiss the back of her head
and whisper
I  
Don’t
Know…..