Times like these, I don’t wanna write much at all, just have a drink or two. Become fluid. Like a river, or a stream of saliva passing between the mouths of two lovers. There’s no fun in picking away, day after day. It’s like death by a thousand cuts. Scrutinizing love is a poison. But then so’s alcohol. So’s everything. Still, at least booze gives you a sense of release. All writing does is leave you down shit creek without a paddle. As the beer slips down my throat, I become giddy. Giddy and delusional, but in the best possible way. Unsure of what year it is, my feet go in different directions. Am I a good guy like I think I am, or just some bum of no use to anyone? I know there’s poetry in me, and that my love runs like a broken tap, but what if I’m the source of my woes? What if I find trouble without even knowing? Words come along, sometimes like a quick come, other times like a walk on a beach beneath milky moonlight as naked as the dead leaves beneath my feet. I’m dead like them. I’m alive. A hive of bullshit with slithers of sunlight washing over my white-as-a-sheet face. The echoes of a thousand shit horror movies rumble in my guts. The screams of a thousand blood-soaked heroines, leaking from my arse along with the odour of rotten meat and the sketches of ideas left to wither like potted plants deprived of water in the kitchen of a man with veins full of disappearing ink.