repetition

I'm afraid that this is another gap-filler type of post. I am having more of my Mood Problems. I am, once again, as self-loathing and angry and dysfunctional as I've ever been. And being the dog I am, I retreat to my basket, when these moods descend. A year or so ago I'd write about what I was feeling in glorious detail. But I now realise that this just protracts the suffering, and makes it even more of a wanky self-flagellation than it already is. So, here for your dilectation is another one of my pieces of... er...Prose (i.e. an alternative wanky self-flagellation). Oh, and the elevator music which will accompany it is: Radiohead's 'My Iron Lung'.

Ah... my favourite friend! the landlord smiles.

Cool, calm. He knows I pay his wages with my glass of dreams. By closing time my liver will be full of dreams and his pocket full of coins. Ah... but my friend, my vodka, my friend. Bitter and oily like the sea. The sea moves through me, through this glass, and out through my tears, running down my hands. The drum beats hard, sounding out the rhythm of my heart, whilst the eyes rot - there is nowt to sustain them. As the night draws in my friend embraces me with cool arms. A fellow sailor - bawdy and high-spirited, all men together, laughing. They are gone, we are gone. I am here, alone, with you, my friend. I use you as an unguent for the memory like I use darkness is an unguent for the reality of a whore’s ugliness. Ah... lime to make you go down more easily, darkness does the same for a woman. The drum beats hard, sounding out the rhythm of the heart...