before anything, i’d just like to say, i know this ain’t one of my better pieces of writing. there are better pieces coming. but hey, you know how when the city shuts your water off for a few days (or in my case what feels like fucking years)? when you first turn the faucet on, ugly shit comes out, then it gets clearer and clearer.
this is me getting the gunk out.
few announcements, i will be trying to tour this year, so email me, bring me to a school or venue near you.
i have not yet slid down the deep dark hole that is depression, and don’t intend to any time soon.
still working, studying and playing hellla fucking jiu jitsu in the city.
i finally put the link to this on my taskbar so hey, expect hella drunken posts homies.
now off that. why does heartbreak and alcohol go together so well?
it’s not just the whole escaping from pain thing… that would be too simple. if it were, we’d talk about alcohol and heartbreak the same way we talk about weed, heroin, or in my case, fighting.
there’s just something intrinsically tight between alcohol and heartbreak. they go together like nothing else. drunkeness enhances, sharpens and yet somehow still alleviates heartache in a way that cannot be matched by anything else i’ve found.
maybe that’s why so many writers i know are alcoholics. or they could be cheesy an living up to the image. though, i kind of sense a chicken and egg debate incoming, so i’ll get off that topic and segue into one of my friends, one of the best writers i know.
http://www.portersnotebook.tumblr.com/.
amazing shit. please read it. someone give this man a bookdeal.
you know, so i can hook up with his hot fiction groupies when he’s rich and famous.
onto my shitty, emoass poetry.
‘on alcohol and cellphones’
gotta love caller id
and I know you knew it was me
but asked who it was anyway
we joked we were OCD
always findin comfort in the little rituals that made daily existence bearable
shared cigarettes after sex
even tho u couldn’t stand the taste of my 27s
the way you’d sit in my windowsill
silhouetted by the streetlight angel
I drunkenly named bob
your whispered I love yous
tickling the space tween my shoulder blades
in the early mornings when you thought I was still asleep
I don’t miss the grand romantic moments
( though god knew we had enough of those)
I remember most how your eyes would scrunch into slits when you smiled
the laughter in your tilted neck
the crooked crescent moon grin you gave
when you’d seen me for the first time in days
no, thas a small lie, one of many told
both in the heyday and aftermath of our bad omened love affair
what I remember most now
is the absence of the above
and how’d I’d hangup yet another drunkdial
after you’d ask who was on the other end of the line