It feels sweet and heavy and there is a fucked up romance to it, a bit like singing a song in the rain.
I walked home from the usual, head down, slowing my breath to hear my thoughts, missing drink and hating my need to imbibe and my inability to stop no matter how dark, how far, how fucked it got.
Most of the night has been spent waiting for the Word to arrive.
"It's not a religion
it's just a technique..."
The romance of the bottle, I have pursued and cultivated.
I have pruned friendships and loves accordingly.
I have decorated my apartment as a church to its holy fucking thrills while knowing it was nothing more than a stilted romanticizing of self destruction.
There is only God he says
eyes not looking for mine
the Devils are all
inside
with that he asks
for a few dollars
then wanders off
singing
some of the bottles held candles
which lit drunken meanderings
across each body
I brought home
no matter how many times I asked
in the morning
they would never tell me what happened
I was left with stains and shame
and faked remembrance of names
was I brilliant or limp
only the bottles knew
and those mute totems
weren't offering
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