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Archive for the tag “drunk”

Bukowski

nablo bukowski

I don’t want to be Bukowski
I want to drink and not get drunk
and have faith in something other than my own bowel movements
I want to love and not grow cold
and not end life writing sci-fi noir from a chair next to my deathbed

I don’t want to be Bukowski
Whatever others think and like to compare
and know that my life was worth more than a place in the Dewey Decimal System
I want to live and not grow old
and not have generations remember only for how Mickey Rourke portrayed me

I don’t want to be Bukowski
Because bitter doesn’t suit me
and the laughter in my soul is best expressed in joy and love
I want my words to be retold
and felt on the lips of others the way they lived in my own heart when I wrote them

I don’t want to be Bukowski
So I won’t

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

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“… And I love you, fucking all.”

"Alienation Nightmare" © 1996 by Sabu

“Alienation Nightmare” © 1996 by Sabu

I have now alienated the entirety of my close friends, past and present, in the forty short days since I quit being a fucking drunk.

Atta boy!

I knew there would be changes.  Baseline changes, in the way I related to my depressingly unhappy life, the life I needed to deal with seeing sober, and not from the rosy view of the bottom of a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.  No warming insulation, no softening cushion like strips of bubble wrap, or pale green packing peanuts, crumbling on the inside of a much-too-tightly wrapped package as it careens, out of control, down the UPS conveyor belt of life.  Broken contents, and useless measures taken to secure them.

Honesty and anger, brevity and elaboration, and an unvarnished way of being real… of being me.  And the alienation of so many, who with their words say that they approve of what I’ve done, but with their absence say that they don’t.  And I don’t blame them.  Because I don’t know if I like the real me better than the old… yet.  But I’m gonna.  Because this voice, this soul, this living, unprotected me on the inside of the crushed cardboard box of my existence accepts the leaky, possibly toxic truth that will, from time to time and from now on, keep spilling out.

And I love you, fucking all.

© 2014 Bill Friday

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