(no subject)

[greanviouesboi]

All that night by lamplight we sing and yell songs which is okay but in the morning the bottle is gone and I wake with the "final horrors" again, precisely the way I woke up in the Frisco skidrow room before escaping down here, it's all caught up with me again, I can hear myself whining "Why does God torture me?" - but anybody who's never had delirium tremens even in their early stages may not understand that it's not so much a physical pain but a mental anguish indescribable to those ignorant people who don't drink and accuse drinkers of irresponsibility- the mental anguish is so intense that you feel you have betrayed your very birth, the efforts nay the birth pangs of your mother when she bore you and delivered you to the world, you've betrayed every effort your father ever made to feed you and raise you and make you strong and my God even educate you for "life," you feel a guilt so deep you identify yourself with the devil and God seems far away abandoning you to your sick silliness- you feel sick in the greatest sense of the word, breathing without believing in it, sicksicksick, your soul groans, you look at your helpless hands as tho they were on fire and you can't move to help, you look at the world with dead eyes, there's on your face an expression of incalculable repining like a constipated angel on a cloud- In fact it's actually a cancerous look you throw on the world, through browngray wool fuds over your eyes- your tounge is white and disgusting, your teeth are stained, your hair seems to have dried out overnight, there are huge mucks in the corners of your eyes, greases on your nose, froth at the sides of your mouth: in short that very disgusting and wellknown hideousness everybody knows who's walked past a city street drunk in the Boweries of the world- but there's no joy at all, peoples say "Oh well he's drunk and happy let him sleep it off" - The poor drunkard is crying - he's crying for his mother and father and great brother and great friend, he's crying for help- he tries to pull himself together by moving one shoe nearer to his foot and he can't even do that properly, he'll drop the shoe, or knock something over, he'll do something invariably that'll start him crying again- he'll want to bury his face in his hands and moan for mercy and he knows there is none- not only because he doesn't deserve it but there's no such thing anyway- because he looks up at the blue sky and there's nothing there but empty space making a big face at him- he looks at the world, it's sticking it's tongue out at him and once that mask is removed it's looking at him with hollow big red eyes like his own eyes - he may see the earth move but there's no significance of any particular kind to attach to that- one little unexpected noise behind him will make him snarl in rage- he'll pull and tug at his poor stained shirt- he feels like rubbing his face into something that isn't.
His socks are thick tired moisty slimes - the beard on his cheeks itches the running sweats and annoys the tortured mouth- There's a twisted feeling of no-more, never-again, agh- What was beautiful and clean yesterday has irrationally and unaccountably changed into a big dreary crock of shit- The hairs on his fingers stare at him like tomb hairs- The shirt and trousers have become glued to his person as tho he was to be drunk forever- The ache of remorse sinks in as tho somebody was pushing it in from above- The pretty white clouds in the sky hurt his eyes only- The only thing to do is turn over and lie face down and weep- The mouth is so blasted there's not even a chance to gnash the teeth - there's not even strength to tear the hair.

"The pathway to wisdom lies through excess"