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Wino

Brian Looney

    Don’t mistake pride with confusion, for perhaps tomorrow morning I’ll want to feel so good again, and will dip my nose into this feeling, for it is the greatest feeling, so divorced from trepidation....with every philosophical reason on the planet to convince me it is logical. Live fast, die fast? Soon to be facing a nuclear war? Living in an increasingly Orwellian society? Our gods are dead? The hoax that is psychiatry? The people in power? The certain knowledge that I may find the most powerful liberation at the bottom of a drink, rather than in a magical pill? That I am a writer, afraid to express, that drink will always free me, if only for the guilt? That the greatest inspirations of my life have cropped up under the influence, that all my heroes have been notorious drinkers, that I must open the conduit by any means, at the sacrifice of all? That I have God in my eyes? That I have no one who loves me beyond those distant images, and that I am socially crippled beyond expression? That most women think me a saint, or a devil, or a fool? That I hate them for it? That I am a little of everything? That I mostly hate my parents(but try to be loving)? That I’ve lived thus far only to turn my sexual repression into poetry? That I love all women in spite of it? That I’m trying to break free, and alcohol seems to be the only social key to the prison door, to their loving smiles and my sense of humor? That this is society, this is life, and that I want to know what is on the horizon, to become so gratefully comfortable and (yes) so gratefully bored? That I’ve never felt my love returned? That I want to experience the numbness and the comfort of routine, of relationship, of a familiar face, of a wedding ring, a certain safety I have never felt? That I want to veer away from the comforts of alcoholism(and also of the hell)? That half my friends are dead, hated and beloved relatives as well, but that the remaining living are a legion of privileged idiots(with few exceptions)? That when a woman smiles at me, I either become a creep or a prude? Is my only deterrent to be the fact that I am destroying myself? When I live with a secret love of self-destruction, that fuck-all, be-all state? That I see nothing on the horizon but wage-slavery and sensual gratification? Well, now, well now. Seems to be a fairly reasonable answer to a fairly difficult problem...



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