The drunk poet in a slut house

*Be advice: Subject matter not suitable for everyone*

Writing this at six a.m
what a scam he had began
He say
nay
He say
obey
His rule, walking slowly like a mule
in to the garden of eve….
where the slut is there sleeping with no fear
so he woke up and tried to find a piece of paper
not in a slut house is easy to find, but his mind
still hurting, hangover bearing had an idea;
let´s wake the fuck up the other “John”
so out he went, out of the room, leaving Miss. Sunshine
asleep  in her dirty cum covered body.

Who the hell in a slut house asks for pen and paper?…
Guess it was him, the semi drunken alligator, also is the predator

He takes a sip of wine, what a fucked up shrine he just made
to his demise another day, almost his birthday up to today
where he screwed up his sobriety. Now he suffers from anxiety, but
he stops right then and there.

He looks at the mirror and doesn´t like what he sees.
No more drinking, not today. Lit´s his last cigarette, gets dressed
amongst all that mess, and walks off, shaking it off.

Just not today.

Stay Frosty gents and gentesses.

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19 comments

      1. You’ll be welcome when you visit – let us know when and we can make it an event. Jane is there tomorrow for her headshace event (pictures to follow after) and then she (and I) are busking afterwards – we love the Art House. May put some of it on Periscope (we shall see) stay frosty as you do G:)

  1. Great imagery Charly, it’s almost like being there…wait I don’t know if that is good or bad, never mind. I think I’ll just stay where I am and live vicariously through your words. 🙂

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