Unfortunately, I had too much fun last night. And I paid for that fun early this morning. Again and again and again.
But nothing will stop me from my self appointed poetry rounds.
Last night I got buzzed, drunk,
bent, stewed, really tied one on,
spanked, snookered, sloshed,
smoked, smashed, screwed up,
slaughtered, shitfaced, tight, twisted,
shellacked, bombed off my ass,
ripped to the tits, wasted, tore up,
hasta atras, hammered, blasted,
tanked, whacked, kootered,
plastered, annihilated, three
sheets to the wind, pie-eyed,
pickled, messed up, mangled,
lubricated, loose, loaded, juiced,
hellified, gassed, roasted, totally
pissed, zooted, wrecked, trashed --
in short: fucked up.
And then fell into bed unwashed,
makeup smeared, dirty toothed, bra
and turtleneck on, to wake up
in a freezing sweat around 2:00,
feeling quite dire, and stumble
into the can just in time to blow
chow, barf, boot, ralph, kiss the
porcelain god, kack, fergle, gack,
honk smurfs, whistle beef, woof,
yack, toss my tacos, hork,
-- in short: puke my guts out
in a series of technicolor yawns.
And I wish I could say I felt
immediately better, emptied, and then
finally melted into dreamland, but
this was just the first of several
increasingly painful yakking sessions,
a total body rejection, and I knew
I'd poisoned myself and was now
dying, one heave at a time, and
they'd find me in the morning
curled like a giant fetus on the floor
around the toilet, pizza vomit
glued into my oily hair.
I won't go on -- I'm sure you get
the disgusting picture by now,
and this is supposed to be a poem --
and, from a position of moral superiority,
sober arms crossed over your pristine
white button down, you have judged me
deserving of my fate, having brought it
down upon my own head one glass of
cheap wine at a time.
Besides, I saw sparks dance in
the shower, the back of my nose
tastes like a clot of sick upchuck snot,
the right side of my brain has been
cooking into bread pudding behind
my eye, and I can't keep an aspirin
down. In fact, the toast and tea
I forced myself to swallow about
an hour ago lies at the bottom of
my stomach like a restless pack of
ants, and any minute now they'd take
a notion to head north.
I've learned my lesson, folks.
If my brain ever shrinks back
to actual size, I'll never drink
again. At least not that rot-gut
brand of white zin that someone
snuck to me in the middle of our
mindless booze orgy. I blame
peer pressure. In fact, from now on,
I will only drink alone.
And limit myself to two, or three,
glasses of the highest quality.
No mixing. And I'll skip
the red peppers on my pizza.