The only thing I drank was stout beer.

I drank it compulsively,

I called it my 'milk'.

Now I've had 3 bottles and it feels ok so I'll go for some more.
I ran pell-mell to the bottle-o!

With each leap my leg-ligaments achieved a kind of ecstasy,

a kind of mild pain.

And as I ran, I secrungered sums of saliva in my mouth,

I spat 'the food' onto that street there.
I walked into the bottle-o and I watched an insect bounce

arrhythmically off a light-bulb, like a buzzing moon.

It made me laugh a tad,

I looked at

him; that other guy but he didn't laugh (Plainly: only the jokes

I laugh at are up to the current standards.)

'I prefer coke mixed from

a syrup,' he explained to his girl.
I bought some excellent stout beer made in South Australia,

my favourite kind; 'Southwark',

and as I walked home I saw a vagrant and considered myself

to be the artist coz I looked at that ugly, haggard old man

as if he was a thing of beauty.

(I was filled to the brim, I thought, with no talent.)
At home, I sat at my desk and watched a cockroach for a while.

The cockroach, I imagined

as a solid shell of crystal charcoal.

But then I just squashed it into a tissue didn't I.

Yes, I did.
And the temperature was just perfect.

I was cake-stoned, phone boned,

alive and joined like lego

to a childlike mood

passing

over me like a roar of joy.

My flesh was keen,

I was binge-thinking about the times they guffawed at my jokes,

I was falling in love with new music,

I was contemplating an affair with the Virgin Mary.

See, I'm a fire-soldier;

I like pretending that I'm the king of the room

at parties.

In my head I take on the role of 'king'.

I went to the john didn't I.

I focussed and began lacquering the porcelain with my wis

and then I began drinking again in my room.

I imagined myself drinking the souls of those fermented plants.

I'm taking these vegetable souls with me, I thought.
Drunk and movement on the roof,

a special episode at the dunny.

I piss and concentrate on the glistening circle of light.

By now I've had about 10 standard drinks

and my blood is warm like my skin

in spring

when the thawing sun strikes it

as I leave the shade…
And later I come across all kinds of advice to myself,

desperately scribbled in journals:

'When you drink… when drunk,

you may drink with a drunken, heedless energy.

But when you're sober,

you regret drinking poison

with the energy of the ocean (a flower).'
Now, I'm listening intently to those beats there on the radio

and I feel around for a pen.

I love the leather feel of the pen in my jelly raw fingers,

so I write something, something very serious.
Note for tomorrow:

The rapport I have with drink

seems gentle and friendly for now,
like clag glue.