Cherry Blossom II

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Watercolor on high gsm and cotton content paper.
This text is a continuation from the beginning of a story, which starts:
Drunken morning sex. Madness. It’s a redbubble link.
You can start the story here it still makes sense and will make you twitch a little as at a sudden burn on the skin of your ribs or a pinprick or the swelling of the memory from when you held in your small child’s hands a lost watch made by an old man long ago.
I believe that I did this painting around the time that the story took place.
“DRUNKEN MORNING SEX. SADNESS”, continued…

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.

Here is a link -

b l a c k w a t e r

to a song which I uploaded to youtube with me playing it whilst the laptop webcam was sitting on top of the freezer recording me.

The song is… an extremity of passion. I mean it with all of my
body, my soul. my mind – I sing it hard.

It is me with an acoustic in front of a webcam. The song is as passionate as anything I have done in my painting, in my writing. I wrote it many years ago when I was drinking myself to death.

I have been sober since 98, but the song still rings true in my scars and in my chest; it leaves my heart raw but it is… True. And… Beautiful.

These are the lyrics. They are. Hm. Well.
They are… they are stitched into my life and skin. I MEAN these things.

Black Water

There’s a girl asleep on my window ledge.
She must be cold, and while she sleeps she cries.
I leaned against the glass
Raven’s wings – beating the backs of my eyes.
For the space of a cigarette,
I came inside and found her.
In a blue dress in my bath, filled with black water, and clover.
I dressed her up in a black coat
And she looked up in the dark.
Like a child Madonna,
Only covered in scars.
CHORUS:

Too many DRINKS
Too many BONGS
Too many black and bitter SONGS.
And don’t you THINK
It’s time to put the madman in the madhouse
Where he belongs.

Bathing at your closed wet lips.

Behind a lace of smiles.

Playing poker with some other rats.

And making faces….
At the blind.

Hallowe’en’s a good day to be born
When you start off a little weird
You know you’re going to end up
Making cocktails out of rats tears.
Making cocktails
Out of rats…. Tears

Cynicism, dispassion, apathy and missed mass
I burned my books, my letters, and my chance.

Cynicism, dispassion, apathy and lies
I burned my books, my letters and my eyes.

CHORUS

Artwork Comments

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