realization.
Not everyone drinks like a dirty punk kid.
But I learned how to drink from dirty punk kids.
Its different, I realize, and its only in looking back do I remember how excessive it all was.
(me siting on a stair landing next to Davis, after a night at a party, screaming whiskey drunk in the middle of a deserted urban street, homemade fermented sugar and yeast, puking my guts out and everyone laughing cause they knew it too. choking down black coffee, activated charcoal, and there comes Sam, wiping the morning sun out of his four eyes, bottle still in his hand, taking a long deep pull that resulted in running to the john. he's gone now. we sang, me to the boy to my right, he a musician softly flowing the words to some new song he'd written. hung over and blurry, stinking up the landing, enjoying our hedonistic revelry. another lifetime ago. the punk kids, with their bikes and their booze, the comfortable porch basking in summer sun, somedays drunk all day long.
saw the sharpie marks, and the pass out spins, falling asleep with your boots on, propped up in a chair, standing up to piss in the middle of a living room floor when you thought no one was watching (i saw that) woke up in the middle of a day going to sleep after long talks in the middle of the morning. so much alcohol, homemade shine, beer, whiskey, wine, cheap forties purchased with whatever change could be found in a couch cushion. roll up cigarettes and steele reserves. three dollars went further then)
Punk kids taught me how to drink, and often, it means drinking until you black out, until you make yourself sick.
And that's how I learned to drink.
To excess.
And sometimes I think its funny that I didn't ever go and do something stupid like die from it.
But I learned how to drink from dirty punk kids.
Its different, I realize, and its only in looking back do I remember how excessive it all was.
(me siting on a stair landing next to Davis, after a night at a party, screaming whiskey drunk in the middle of a deserted urban street, homemade fermented sugar and yeast, puking my guts out and everyone laughing cause they knew it too. choking down black coffee, activated charcoal, and there comes Sam, wiping the morning sun out of his four eyes, bottle still in his hand, taking a long deep pull that resulted in running to the john. he's gone now. we sang, me to the boy to my right, he a musician softly flowing the words to some new song he'd written. hung over and blurry, stinking up the landing, enjoying our hedonistic revelry. another lifetime ago. the punk kids, with their bikes and their booze, the comfortable porch basking in summer sun, somedays drunk all day long.
saw the sharpie marks, and the pass out spins, falling asleep with your boots on, propped up in a chair, standing up to piss in the middle of a living room floor when you thought no one was watching (i saw that) woke up in the middle of a day going to sleep after long talks in the middle of the morning. so much alcohol, homemade shine, beer, whiskey, wine, cheap forties purchased with whatever change could be found in a couch cushion. roll up cigarettes and steele reserves. three dollars went further then)
Punk kids taught me how to drink, and often, it means drinking until you black out, until you make yourself sick.
And that's how I learned to drink.
To excess.
And sometimes I think its funny that I didn't ever go and do something stupid like die from it.