drunken morning sex. sadness
the text v of the in virtue accompaniment. hard harsh true and sad
drunken morning sex. sadness belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical, Artists with Disabilities, Back In Black ( sorry~NO PHOTOGRAPHY), Blue Room, Ebony and Ivory, Live, Love, Dream: , Masterpieces: Literary Workshop, Practising the Dark Arts, Remodernist Painters' Group - 1/CALENDAR MONTH, Self as Other, Short stories - Spherical Scriptings, Something To Say, Spiritual Art, Stillness Speaks **Max 2 uploads per day** {{No NUDES, ABSTRACT, CANDIDS or ACTION IMAGES}}, The Adult Group, The Sensual Word, The Word Tree, Twisted Tales, Two Beings Group and WMGI am an alcoholic. i haven’t had a drink for nine years. i am not really 29 like it says on my profile, i am 36. i only LOOK 29. less. 23 or so. i don’t know why. i haven’t aged. i still get asked for id. this little story is very dark and has BAD SWEARY WORDS. please heed the warning and don’t get upset by linguistic semantic vernacular.
is a mellow song i wrote recorded sang and played. 1.6 meg. just click it will play. listen to it while you read this, if you will, if you would, if you can, if…
(Fill the clubhouse with blood and the halls with bone.)
Smells like rotting seaweed but sweet and tart in my throat. Glad I never lived there I mean it’s hard enough to survive a conversation with someone I don’t know let alone someone who’s got my whole life history on the tip of their brain. Walk into the shop my god I know this girl I remember her face half-blurred in warm brown spirits but beautiful still. Too late to walk out now she’s seen me pretend I’m looking at something, great walk right into the porn magazines mind seething in suggestion but turn around right quick before I follow that path.
Buy my cigarettes without looking at her of course I have to can’t help it and see myself reflected in her eyes contempt so huge it’s making her head bulge.
Get out fast blood draining from my face fuck it forgot my change she calls out and I have to go back (go back! Go back!) I think she sees the broken capillaries and swell of cheek hair sticking out in tufts and then I’m through the fucking door.
Hot concrete under my feet chewing gum cigarette butts smells like gum trees and gravel. Slide down the brick wall scraping my back hard to get the cigarettes out in the morning though of course it’s nearly afternoon. Tastes like burned rubber but I need it that’s for sure hacking for a little while and feeling every poisoned nerve.
Sitting there with my head in my hands have to just now can’t hold it up. Looking through my eyelids red like the rest of the colours inside my heart booming at odd intervals and making me flinch feel the blood surge, fall, wait, surge, fall, wait wait wait surge.
You can take your hands away from your face you can you can. But it’s okay faded back into my body a dry leaf into water and I sit and actually do take my hands away from my face.
Getting up never surprises me any more I’m used to how this meat functions now and I’m off hiding deeply behind hair and sunglasses hunched and hunched into my shirt like an old man gotta get my shit together for once so hungry I can feel my ribs through my shirt, through my skin so easily trace each one outlined in tight thin flesh.
Seems so long but I know that its not hate walking fucking four letter word walk feet hurt but no more than the rest of me.
Home and walking up the driveway fast feet focused so hard have to slow down fucking heart playing up again boom and twist inside my chest like a truck backfiring but fleshy and thick. Gets me that the noise is so deep in my ears when there’s no room for resonance in me, still.
Open the door paranoid cow locked it gotta get the keys out not so hard now that my jeans are only held up by my belt feel it hard against my hips fish the keys out hot from close to my skin heated alcohol fever must be burning so much energy no idea where it’s coming from can’t be much left.
Through the door and cool darkness.
Make the few last steps relief strong and sweet that I make it home again though I know it’ll be hours before I feel connected to my limbs by more than flesh. I can smell carpet wet and old beer oh god there’s still some left I know there is think yeah pretty sure I passed out before I could get my fast little hands to the back of the carton cardboard already soggy guitar pick stuck in the top like a feather. NOT that way not yet though the sensation of want floods me to the tendons.
Craving takes over and turns my hands into claws and my head into a fucking funnel. I have to hang over the sink fingers doing that compulsive dance twitch lurches across my face like a wire hook.
Through it and upright wiping that sweet sweaty face glazed inward and I walk past the fridge like I’m not being stalked by something cold and perfect inside and out.
Upstairs as desire retreats though my mouth still waters so that I’m actually drooling.
And this is the time huh? Morning, is it? Smell something apart from breath and hitch my pants up. Push the door open and there she is, curled up and stinking just like me I always check to see that there’s still life in those lips when sleep or unconsciousness takes the pretence away for a while. Sure I know they’re cracked and she moves and wasn’t sleeping anyway.
“Hi honey I am home.”
I sit without staggering and she grimaces and pushes the hair from her face. “I have cigarettes. I have nausea. I have disquiet.”
The room is so unreal it’s got sunlight pouring in all over the clothes on the floor. There’s broken glass in the bed. It is glittering. Stuff still glitters.
“Mmm.” She pulls one from the proffered pack like it’s a small dangerous animal and I thank Christ one more time that I am not alone in this but have abject company in my abject immolation. Her face is swollen too and I can see the marks on her arms where she scratches her skin in her sleep. They match the scars, offset the sheets. “I have,” she lights it with a match that sputters sulphur (such appropriation) “no sympathy.” She retches, coughs. Her fingers turn white on the grey-yellow bed-sheets. She takes another drag.
I can hear kids playing outside. Kids. Playing.
“You passed out on the floor last night with your arm in the spilled puddle of wine. You still had your drink in your hand. But it’s ok. I rescued it.” She hacks out a cough and I realise that the shakes have started again for the day and my upper lip is twitching twitch twitch twich so fucking helpless can’t even control my own movements so what Paul so what.
She sits up and I can see the faintness wash through her and hurt her and her cigarette extrapolates the tremors that have her the delirium tremens.
“David turned up last night. He told me you had called my Mum and told her she was a cunt. Did you do that Paul?”
She looks at me for a second with her big dark once perfect eyes rimmed in red puffed and poisoned like me with me like me. Cutting arc of guilt whips through me did I did I? as the marionette Paul in blackout; the betrayer the monster the liar the drunk.
“Maybe.”
She was a nice lady she was nice she hated me now but when we moved in when it started she did the washing for us one time I think the puke on Sarah’s sleeve or maybe the cum stains she didn’t offer again nice lady perm and a four wheel drive and ironed sleeves and nice shoes. “I don’t know.”
“When was the last time we had sex? The last time you could? You don’t know that either huh? DO YOU?” She says the words in a monotone scraping, no acrimony it is everywhere for us anyway.
“I fucked David on the couch. At one point I looked down and he had his foot on you. I screamed like a banshee when I came.
“You didn’t wake up.”
She takes another drag and holds out the cigarette.
I reach and take and breathe it in and I am not here I am not.
I put it out on my cheek. Slowly.
It hurts.
“Yeah.” She says, and she is crying. “Yeah, Paul. That’s great.”
She puts her hand on mine.
“You stupid, stupid man… you stupid… you broken…”
She takes something like a breath.
“You cripple.”
She cups my chin. She is crying. She is crying.
Karen Cougan
hard harsh and sad all right Paul….............
xkc
jegustavsen
real feelings/expressions of emptiness…trying to fill.
Melissa Vowell
I have cigarettes. I have nausea. I have disquiet
I remember this. I could never put it so well.
I’m sorry
x
Holly Werner
Very sad.
RoughDiamond
been there x
BlueBubble
Streuth … i want more. Could you please finish this and publish it? It resonates with me. Thanks Paul.
eponavisions
i understand well. came to colorado 98 from florida. had 13 years in rooms. sponsor was bill w and louis secretary.i learned much as i wite edit and art. and right brain remembers all. and some distortions. ex drank. i drank blanked out for 3 days. i knew better. that cut me so you will bleed stuff. aa so different now. as i break anonymity i say i needed to fall. to high on horse was i. sad and lonely confused could not diffuse. threw my medallion of thiteen year into creek at manitou here. i have hep c even before i drank. seventeen i was. younges of daughters here at time hauled me around for 3 days, she had never seen me this way. then six years ago found out had tumor. yes it seemed benign. not. cancer had sandwiched in so the best of docs did not see with all the testing. i lost much during treatment. i feel what you say and i cry. long story. had a non fda approved procedure and i lived. yet still hep c. my sis has offered up half her liver if and when i need a transplant. yes i will in future. baby sis died at 38 she never drank or drugged. that was 2000 she was cardio cath nurse yet she told me that if i survived thirty year marker i was ok. we did not know. naomi judd was only person to say hep c a cancer. and found out in 94. thought i had chronique fatigue or pms. yes staying sober helped. now sober for many years. came to colorado to live not die and live.feel the empty hole and make peace with you. for i had never made peace i know now. i go to cancer support meetings. aa is to much a downer for me here. espescially now and yes bill w did belladonna as in book. i was much as he and more i knew. ya know when i woke from nightmare i was jealous or survivors guilt. they died i did not. my children were my higher power or little goddesses that kept me going.we make a mistake does not mean we are a mistake.you are so brave to let us at bubble know you.hang in.or as a friend not. said we tell the story and we are no longer our story. bubble me if ya wish. and check out my sis suze49 or suze’49 who joined site just to give me good stuff. i had to fight for life. where as before i cared not. now 3 grans and 2 daughters who look at me ascance. long. yet my beautiful grans are worth it all. i do not fight to be dead right anylonger. i am a more than alcholic. and realized amazing things on my sojourn. i give to you some courage and blessing i hold for those like i. many died including ex and bio dad of girls. sad drink and cocaine. i have done all and more and i give up. yet i hang tough for grans. there will be a time that truth is revealed i wait.not as victim to protect. something about alcohol preserves us well. yet i had good genes. 53 and told i look late 40s. told often.not from my pic here in shadow and dark. that was how i felt. no longer. is it not grand to have a world of passion and artist a place to share care and believe. nothing is better medicine. yes i had to see how down chemo took me. and from what i am told worse than drunk. yet i remember only 3 things from those many years ago. and one recent for i made such a fool of me. fear. reaction vs action. after all work chronic care lady has taught me. never sunk so low. yet i had to hit emotional bottom as i do not drink i probably would have. so embarrasing and i knew but did not. takes two. we who write are here for you.still finding a kind of peace within and learning to forgive me so i can forgive others for wrongs i did or they i. now i live alone. learning not to let words hurt. and yes i have felt like i cried wolf to late i know from a friend who passed there are great support groups that artist have started world over.hang in there. hope you are not like i. beating yourself up for all wrongs not anyone can fix. i live alone. yet it has taken a neighbor and good friend who helped me through last depression. yes i should have kept mouth shut. for i am no longer the overly dependable person who made and gave fortunes small or large away. i protect my heart. for i found no one cares. here. we grow we learn or not. you will make it. i know and see in you this. yes all and more to look forward to. feel pain first. then go forth. i kid about being recovered catholic. yet i do go to hippie priest when i need and he hears my confession. i embrace all religions and attitudes. only whatever works for this moment. have far to go.i do. not you.i see with clarity of daughters of Eire.i cry for you and i. different. most times i am happy alone. have three furry people who guide cuddle and love me. know you are blessed. see this and know it deed down.. everyday look in mirror and smile tricks one into happiness. i now see me as i am faults and all. i make amends immediatley. problem is if challenged i retaliate. so yes long way to go. and chemo still coming out. know that the bubble is only place i have found peace and hope for a future. mark german was one of first. i read his words of art “he either liked or did not like” i found spirit for i realized i had been trying to like entire life since father died at twelve and i have just in last few weeks given all up and more to see the list the poems the journals, i say next time. i do not have to like what i do not i can actually love and like what i like. yes hope faith courage goes beyond these labels. only you can find you. let go of labels. they almost killed me. thank you so for sharing it shows me where and when i need to be at times. take care my friend. like what you like and dump the rest. ephiany at 53, not. it was the bubble. they loved me through hard times. then best friend died. and still bubble gave me a way out. my choice or not. we are passionate folk on bubble. i believe in tink. so keep going dont be to hard on you. for yes we pick. they pick us to feel unreal fantasies,. illusion is conclusion. i do love those here at bubble who brought me back to art love passion and i agree with paul. for when you finish story you are no longer your story. passion in syntax and prose interpreted that you and a world or half of world can relate. take care janet nee eponavisions.
Suzanne German
Janet…goodness. I just read your post…..you have experienced ups and downs! and come through. Wow…your spirit comes through so loud and strong – good for you! stay that way!
Suzanne
Paul…love this piece….written with so much of you.
Anni Morris
Very few have the talent and capability to express what you have managed to do here. Thanks for posting this.
pauldrobertson
thank you. thank you so very much.
Shara Wright
This is so passionate… full of hatred and poison. Pain. I love it.
Leon Walker
Wow…
Damian
Wonderful Paul. A dark journey, but I’m glad you’ve written about it.
rayy
without a doubt, u are one of my favorite artists on this site. before i even joined, i would come on this site and just read and cry and appreciate the fact that there are so many of us out there, and you stood out. you are amazing and have a real gift. GO FAR! for the rest of u as least.
with gratitude,
rayy
pauldrobertson
thank you. what a beautiful thing to say. thank you
-paul
Allison Lane
amazing words you’ve shared with us, I think you’re very brave. Thank you!
Maureen Bloesch
Sharing feelings, for men, is one of the most difficult things…but it does help to some degree. The struggle of life’s ups and downs can be monumental for some. Somewhere within, I ‘see’ a soul that has searched and struggled with what it found. There is a richness to your innerself – one that was ‘starving’ but your warmth is being fed and you strive to compete to feel complete. You have an inner turmoil that you fear will leave scars – they are only as deep as you let them be. You also have an inner beauty that is struggling, let it go, embrace the warmth that will give you sustenance.
pauldrobertson replied
Thank you for your kindness maureen
Rosie Red
i don’t drink anymore either..it’ been a long time. :)
pauldrobertson replied
i have found that being sober actually makes my life MORE intense… well done… it remains the most difficult thing i have ever done.
Rosie Red
yes, it’s hard, but sometimes thinking about the consequences makes it seem easy.
i thiksobriety can bring more intensity because you lose that old way of smoothing the rough edges, and have to find new ones.
but really my life is intense either way- there’s just a lot less ‘drama’ when i don’t add alcohol to it.
:)
pauldrobertson replied
never ever understood ppl who are NOT INTENSE.. after all this is it…
and yes of course, the same was true for me. i think that the pleasures perhaps are the most intensified now… rather than that other now THEN
Rosie Red
i agree, there is actually a lot of bliss in my life now. :)
Karin Taylor
hi i’m new to seeing/reading your work….it made me cry….perhaps i’m just a baby….but the tears were real….i thought as i approached the halfway mark, here is someone that feels everything very very intensely….someone that feels deeper than I do….i didn’t realise that was possible…
I’ve read a bit from your therapy too….it’s frightening…my cousin had electric shock therapy for schizophrenia… my family and I have history of depression and suicide…. your words cut like a knife….no warm fuzzies here….but truth, honesty and guts, it’s brutal but it’s good…you are purely being yourself, with no masks – i appreciate that …thank you
Karin
Patricia Anne ...
It’s very intense stuff here. Hard for me to grasp. Reading isn’t my best point being dyslexic but I can fell this as I heard the song (very good BTW) wonderful pice of art work the whole thing.
Micky McGuinness
Hi Paul
The fact that this so successfully blurs the line between fact and fiction makes this a very strong piece of work: Thank you for sharing it in Twisted Tales … ugh that sounds cheesy!
Take care
Micky
Patricia Anne ...
CherieStrongArt
what a powerful piece… admire your honesty, reading it provoked alot of emotion and that is a compliment to your style. felt drained after reading but curiously wanting more… truth
mlgkats
i have been there for 23 years , now life has gotten better, this is a very powerful piece a lot of us recognize well done