Charles Bukowskis Alcohol Consumption Through The Year's

bottles clink like keys to hell's doors, my hands shook before they stilled in gin, first it was a love affair— warm whiskey whispers on cold nights, the booze bloomed, and I rode the flame like a fool on fire. years lost, sweat-soaked in bars, conversations slurred, jobs slipping through my fingers like sand. I traded promises for the bottom of a glass, women for the next cheap thrill— a barstool my throne, but the drinks never loved me back. the mornings were cruel with the sun stabbing my skull, and all the friends turned to ghosts, I was king of my own wreckage, but the throne was burning, and still, I drank