The aftermath of this unfortunate event.

The following was written somewhere between total inebriation and the end of the headache on the far end of a three-day bender:

I’ve had enough, I’m done. I ain’t gonna wage this war. There’s a limit to what I can bear. In all these years I’ve been the fucking knight in crazy Shining armour. Here’s Johnny with the laughter and the goddamn axe again. Fuck him, and fuck this. There’s no reason for this distress. You reanimate yourself and feed on my three-day bender with no chance of a proper bed to sleep on. No job, no life’s work, no good intentions. All the grace and profitability I ever had to give to the ones I love (or fuck, hump, or whatever else) goes straight out the window, only to be eaten by hogs and police hounds hungry for blood. THIS is not my fucking war. Let somebody else take the beating.


NOTES ON BRAZILIAN FIELD OBSERVATIONS: It’s a jungle out there. As you move through dense trees with great skin and limber branches, be careful not to touch. Most of these specimen are intoxicated. Some bear great fruits, while others have succumbed to inertia and simply stand there, slighty slouched. Lost all the strength in their backbone. As temperature rises, observations of a sonic boom and a great amount of rustle. There’s a certain sensual humidity to this place. Density of leaf on leaf, deep roots and fertility of ground and spores. Careful not to step in poison ivy though. In circumstances such as these, death is hiding just around the corner.

I’m a man without prospect. When everything else fails, when the angry hangover becomes standard practice, that’s when you cash in the chips you’ve left. No more spinning the wheel. No more mr. Nice Guy. Death is closer than paradise. A fit of rage lead to bouts of wildflower abces turning my body into a botanical mess. Yet with all this upset stomach and dirty mind, I get fucked up over the ghost of christmas past, an apparition so horrid that my bones shiver to this day since I first gazed upon her. Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Nobody knows you. Nobody knows.

Like the argonauts could not close their ears to the Sirenes, I cannot close myself off from what is bearing down upon me. This weight wears me down worse than a fat chick in a handcart. Stick a needle in my brain, doc, I’m giving it all to science. Lobotomise the past. Give one half to charity, one half burned at the stake. Let it be cast in stone that my cock will serve anatomy lessons for drunken halflings. Halfwits may disect my liver for kicks. Shits and giggles will be on the house from now on. Just consult my attorney on matters of Necrophilia. Like me mentor always said: You can never be against anything you haven’t seen the wrong end of.

OBSERVATIONS #2: The jungle is full of tricks. I see a party of eggplants escalate and nearly eat me alive. Chew disgruntedly and spit me back out. Too hairy. I got out with less than I brought to the table. Left a little dignity there, a spot of sobriety on the mantle, all in the nature of a fool’s errand. I slip out the door and let the war be the war, the jungle be the jungle and the illusions just that. Tell the taxi drive to keep the change and hop on the train. But while you can get the man out of the warzone, the jungle and the girl, you can never get the girl or the jungle or the warzone out of the man.

Le Clochard Noctambule