A full June moon crests the trees outside the window. Sucking on cigarettes and slurping rye whisky mixed with coke -with ice- which is significant as the music the ice makes as it rattles around inside the glass is a music that is magnificent within my spirit, harkens ancient echoes of joyous, boisterous drunken days, when insouciance flowed with fiery frenzy and females flitted in and out of my arms.
Distant thunder threatens the full moon, its reverberating wind stirring the trees, blowing back the worn, faded curtains on the window. Sitting, smoking, drinking and writing--i chant a vanquished, ancient chant, laud bone and sinew, cartilage and restless lust with the language of desire and the solace of surrender, emit hoary odor of dried blood, remnant passion, stark embrace and edible stain.
Purgatory words echoing in the murky chamber of memory.
Nights pass like this--murky with rye whisky and cigarettes. Nothing particularly wrong with that. There are some implications, healthwise, I suppose--so be it. Certain things you trade for a notion of balance
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