Something I wrote while drunk about how hard I find it to write while drunk

So this is how so many of them do it?
This is the soap that blends the sluggish, thick oil of thought with life’s water?
To be honest, I don’t see it.
Sure, I’d rather be reading for a room with a cigarette in my blackened fingers and a fine Spanish ruby twinkling in my stomach; but let’s face it – it’s not for me.
I love to see blue ribbons on wine jars floating in the autumn’s peace and breeze as the ghosts of ancient birds return with the retreating sun, but all this laundry does for me is to push the oil stains deeper; the language recedes like the dreaming runner’s goal.


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