Long Alcoholic Poems
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Guilt,
is an influence better served chilled
And only time will tell
If this is to be the beginning
or the end of mine
Was my lasting thought as the ambulance sped her away
Not a doctor merely a son
witnessing his mother fade to grey
So down and broken my skin had
turned to green to mask the darkness
of my mind and heart within
With hands still raw from the constant
bleaching undertook to rid or hide
this house of her stagnated faeces scent she left behind
Sometimes you have to be cruel to be
kind if you wish to preserve your sanity
If the choice of weapons to wage this duel with are tugging at a loved
one's heart strings
And how can you still be filled with regret if you have supposedly done
the right thing
Because you know they are only
going to hate you and resent you
for it afterwards
Dad dying was both cruel and sad
but what you are doing to yourself
can only be described as tragic
Dad wasn't given a choice whereas
you are doing this to yourself and
by proxy to me to
And yet somehow you always
still end up making me feeling guilty
no matter what i do
Maybe if i was an alcoholic as well
then this wouldn't hurt half as much
as it does and i wouldn't be forced
into caring so much either
But worst of all is being forced into
buying it for you knowing it's the
only reason you choose to carry on
living for
Not much of a drinker but I might start carrying a flask
So, I can sip something a little stronger than my depression
Because this counseling session is not helping
My life right now is just a hangover that last week's
Or a bad break up that only repeats
Sadness eats more than happiness
And these tears water my dying heart, like a dying flower
But I can't find the sun, so I think I'm drowning
And some days I'm at peace with the feeling
While other days I fight to breathe, breathing heavy
Trapped in anger and frustration
Born from my personal recession
Not much of a drinker, but I'm tired of tasting my bitter tears that fall from my eyes and rest on my lips
I need something a little more sour
Because my tart mood is starting to taste good
Maybe this alcohol will give me a revelation
Or at least a break from the pressure
Distancing myself from my peers
Can't hear anything positive mine as well cut off my ears
Mine as well cut off my years
A life short lived but at least I know what it is to truly live
Too many people choose to pretend
Today I picked a date
And I'm not going out
But I am leaving this world
p.s. so raise a glass to being alive...
As a writer, I am charmingly unoriginal. I use the same letters as everyone else and much of the identical punctuation but in my defense, Coca-Colas are all the same, and each one is delightfully refreshing.
On Sundays my Grandmère throws these fêtes, ‘social lunches’ where anyone might drop in - attendance, I‘m told, can be a social signal. Two weeks ago, it was fashion week and ‘smart society’ (the vampire pale and dangerously thin individuals casually dressed to kill) were trolling for fun.
There were about 150 people there, like the Mayor of Paris, Saint Laurent’s Anthony Vaccarello, Léna Situations (GenZ influencer), Just Riadh (comedian), Delphine Arnault and the Archbishop of Paris - to name a few. But I was only there for a half an hour, and it wasn’t my job to take roll.
Now, these parties all play-out, to me, like romcom ‘problem comedies.’ You have the ever-present and delicate aroma of cocktails, an Archbishop (subconsciously dangling the high trap of moral purification and great, heavenly rewards), elder frenchmen, like my uncle Remy with his languid, cigarette-lipped, smoke-cured profanity, some models hoping to be seen and younger, eager eyed, corporate boy-men types ogling every feminine creature with alcoholic heartiness.
I don’t think Grandmère sees the fun undercard of human foibles, but there are big alcohol-fueled feelings in every register as these events hit their peak. Growing up, at these things, I’d sit quietly in a corner, usually with a book, pretending to read and just people watch. Everyone’s coming and going (‘free-drinks’) but 30 or 40 people are always around somewhere.
These days, Peter shares my little, flowered, corner settee. We sit, shoulder to shoulder, and snark, like huckstas for a sports book, about who’s thirsty for whom. It’s all questionable information, surface impressions and instant verdicts.
.
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A Song for this:
Someone In The Crowd - Emma Stone, Callie Hernandez, Sonoya Mizuno & Jessica Rothe
I like to start my day with a hot cup of coffee
I pound down the coffee
First thing I do every day
as the dawning sun
Lights up my lonesome room
Yeah, but not just a simple cup of java Joe, but a God damn snarling sarcastic smarmy cup of coffee
I mean, - we are talking about an alcoholic, all speed ahead, always hot, always fresh, always there when I need it, angry, attitude talk to the hand Ztude, bad, bad assed, beats breaking, beatnik, bluesy, bitter, y, bombs away, capitalistic, caffeinated up the ass, cinematic, communistic, Colombian grown, Costa Rican inspired, Cowabunga to the max, crazy assed, devilishly angelic, divine, divinely inspired, dyslexic, epic, extreme vetting, evil eye, expensive, erotic vision inducing, Ethiopian coffee house brewed, euphoric, freaky, freazoid, foxy, Frenched kissed, French brewed, funkified, foxy lady, graphic, GOD in my coffee, with Allah, Ganesh, Jesus, Kali, Buddha, Christians, Durga, Hindus, Mohamed, Jesus and Mo and their friend, the cosmic bar maid, Sai Babai, Shiva, Taoists,
I am not an alcoholic. I am one of the very few who can drink only one.
However...
I am an addict. I like to smoke. Never in a million years, could I ever take just one toke.
Much like alcoholism, addiction is a sickness one cannot see. It is a killer that lives inside of me.
It craves the poison dope has within, and pulls me down lower than I have ever been.
Like a constrictor, it holds me tight. All night long, till the morning light.
Putting down the pipe can be easy as long as I'm ready, willing and able. And with love and support from the alcoholics around this table.
As I sit here with GOD on my side, I can learn to be teachable if my ears and my mind are open wide.
Whether it be N.A. or A.A., you can find me there...
I thank you for listening and allowing me to share.
When I was young, most of the words I heard were kind
There was never cursing in my house
At least, not in front of me
When I was young, I never saw my dad cry, or laugh much
The first time I remember him crying was at my 5th grade continuation
He didn’t cry when I told him about my thoughts
He didn’t cry when I told him about my sexual assault
He learned only to cry tears of happiness
His emotions were forbidden
When I was young, my mom used to tell me that certain things I said made her sad
They made her sad because they were true
I learned this when my younger brother called her an alcoholic
She said ‘That makes me sad’
My brother was 6
When I was young, my parents got divorced
I was in the 3rd grade
When they told my brother and I
I went to my dad to cry
My mom was jealous, and thought I would choose him over her
So she lied
She deflected everything she had done onto him
That’s how I learned to lie
That’s how I learned my mom was a child predator
When I was young, I took care of my brother
My dad wasn’t allowed to see us
My mom was always busy with her lies
So I took the role
I was 8
It skewed my mental age
I acted like I was 11
Now I’m stuck 3 years ahead
When I was young, I struggled when my mental health
In 3rd grade I was diagnosed with GAD and MDD
I was a suicide risk
Later in life my therapist brought up OCD
And then PTSD
And then OSDD
When I was young, I was sexually assaulted
I was in Kindergarten
He was in 2nd grade
Every day
On the bus
The front row
Why didn’t the bus driver do anything?
I feel bad for the kid who sat across from us
He saw it
He would always ask if we were kissing
I wonder if he remembers
I only realized in 5th grade
I wonder if he knows now
I wonder where he is now
I hope he’s okay
I hope he’s forgotten
I hope he has no idea
I hope he’s doing great in school
I hope he never goes through what I went through
I wouldn’t wish that on anyone
Not even that 2nd grader on the bus
Who I’m in school with to this day
I see him in the halls
I hear his name
I take my pills and move away
Thats how I live
Day-to-day
I need to find a goal
no longer to live life of a broken soul
Living a lie...just to get by
I've past all the pain
And left with there stain
a new life is now in reach
This new world beside the beach
no longer do I continuously pray
Hidden for so long
I don't know where I belong
To start it all over
is as hard as an alcoholic...to stay sober
Where do I begin?
how far do I jump in?
This new life is rather very frightening
I'm scared and taunted
But no longer am I haunted
the first steps I have begun taken
To walk with my head held high and awaken
I have finally found my soul
Now Lord, I ask what is to be my goal?
Sometimes we take a turn with others in the dance club.
It’s fun and friendly but when it’s over - you know it.
He stepped on my foot
and I winced in pain
he’d stepped on my foot
and then he did it again
That's the danger in dancing
a slow dance - being too snug
his hands on your back
and you're pinned like a bug
I should wear combat boots
when cutting a rug
with guys I'm not sure of
I’d finally had enough
The last guy ended our dance
by adding a hug - I don’t know,
a bit extra, but I went with the flow
Why am I sweating in strange men’s arms?
Then again, what exactly is the harm?
The social oddity of public touching,
of course, is that if we weren’t dancing,
would I even stand close to them?
p.s.
If you’re looking for a Summer, French-café coded, it-girl drink to put out your fire of thirst, try a ‘Diabolo menthe,” it’s made of lemon soda plus mint syrup and obviously non-alcoholic. Pair it with a vanilla Madeleine, a petite, shell shaped pastry with a lot of charm. YUM
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A song for this:
I'll Call You Mine by girl in red
August by No Vacation
7/8/19
She is the black sheep of her family
Walking alone in the night
She hurts inside from all this pain
But always tells herself she is alright.
Was never good enough for Mom or Dad
Sis always came first
She understands now, but for some time
Would pray for God to break the curse.
She is an alcoholic,
and was never good enough
Would never make them proud
While on her cigarette she would puff.
She rebeled away, what was the point
The never understood At all
So into her bed at night
Crying, she would crawl.
Feeling alone a alot
And always feeling left out
She was and still is the black sheep
Of her family there is no doubt
Radio impulse
Stray songs invite;
Hip melancholy
~~~~~~~~~
Words and lyrics
Basket of moods;
Mental corridors
~~~~~~~~~
Espresso machine
Caffeine song;
Frothy brew
~~~~~~~~~~
Dancing darling
Plucks my heart strings;
Sense surround
~~~~~~~~~
Listen now
Birdsong metaphor;
Dawn brings magic
~~~~~~~~~
Profound moments
Rain wets window;
Windy sadness
~~~~~~~~~
Neighbour smiles
Meal takeaway chit-chat;
Weather and prices
~~~~~~~~~
Pineapple slices
Lunch time treats;
Sour-sweet yellow
~~~~~~~~~
Dress-up ladies
Dolls on stilettos;
Curvatures glow
~~~~~~~~~
Mascara eyes
Vivid charades fix;
Dreamy distance
~~~~~~~~~
News headlines blast
Earthquake tremors again;
Nepalese pain grips
~~~~~~~~~
Sighing old woman
Complains to herself;
Ghostly whispers
~~~~~~~~~
Wayside alcoholic
Smiles in somnolence;
Happy delusions
~~~~~~~~~~
Be beyond blur
Lively nonsense;
Sound escape plan
~~~~~~~~~
New food court here
Up market ambience;
Prices escalate
~~~~~~~~~
Two grownup kids meet
Playground romance;
Brief interlude
~~~~~~~~~
Wedding banquet
Happy couple cheers;
Sanguine guests feast
~~~~~~~~~
Yoda in green
True to life;
Star Wars philosophy
~~~~~~~~~
"Do or do not,
There is no try."
The Force runs away
~~~~~~~~~
Sing to the dawn
Be happy now;
Tomorrow can wait
~~~~~~~~~
My darling calls
Expresso ready;
Blurry steps slide
~~~~~~~~~
Glimpse here
New light flings;
Suspend objections
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
27 May 2015
Singapore