Inebriated Ink Flows Like Wine

you don't want to read this

Still I cannot find what I have been looking for, every teasing sculpture turns out to be false, the anatomy of the confused soul must write down their madness in order to appease it, like a dog to be fed, like a c**t to be fucked. How violent is the nature of the world, the monstrous laws that govern our thoughts and our actions, the sand in our skulls and the wax in our eyes. XIV

one day she opened her eyes and saw that everything she had done was wrong. 

Some days the callous of memory grows thick and radiant like her pulsating pupils

and she remembers she has to forget.

(it is the twelfth week of inebriation) 

The wordless mouths of sleep speak in tangled knots of vowels. 

They dream

together of

tracing their hands with

fountain pens

and reading their

palms to

find the next

road

The illusion of myodesopsia is burnt into her wine colored eyes and she gets sick

           with every sip.

(she should have never have done that)

Time is strenuous / drinking glass like frappaccino bottle in a bottomless void of sea and sorrow and dreaming in line at Starbucks its already 11pm s**t I gotta get back home soon the bottle is cold in my hand cold like the moon that stares down the highway and stays in the same place as I drive and watch everything around me whiz and whir by past my peripheral the moon stays yet in the same position like the keen eye wandering thought of galaxy inevitable rot / interstellar coffee tendencies and addictions to cocoa bean resonate in my kidneys and my urinal is like Peru's river mouth / (“dude, I'm so f*****g high man, I cant feel my f*****g feet man, s**t.” -- takes off shoes -- “dude I still cant find my feet.” )  /  the scissors are still in the bottom of the pool  /  this drink cost me five dollars and already I have to piss it out to make room for the next bottle of death brew -- HA! -- silent bubbles screaming submerged under my tongue / the maps on the wall seem brilliant and related reality of real real real people wonder why the world is split in two

Carl calls me the next day / says 'there's a party in an hour.' / I'm still very fucked up from last nights haze of a dream -- the fog that dissolves any recollection and logic of reason: a liquid in a cup to a liquid in my kidney sacs -- slapping hands and surfing my urinary tract system like a f*****g submerging wave of brew and burning communist whiskey we call vodka. Pissing it out was the only memory I have of last night: and how absolutely splendid pissing out quarts of alcohol at a time is / I say, 'Yeah I'll go.' / 'Okay cool, I'll pick you up.' / I hang up.

I sat on the couch and waited for drunk Carl and wrote what I believed to be the next best selling novel:

Time is strenuous.

I cant find Carl...

there is a girl standing by the pool and she drinks from a red cup, like everybody else. She's in her bikini, slippery red silk that doesn't conceal anything. I walk up to her with my bong drink, the only drunk a*****e at the party with a bong drink, filled with death brew. When I get up close to her I realize that I know her, or at least recognize her. I'm coming down from being fucked to the up -- but I'm still very agitated in the kidney

“Hey.”

“Hey! Aren't you that one guy who's writing a book?”

“Yep, that is me all right!” Bong in hand, tits at hand.

“Cool! Hey, do you think I should change my profile picture?”

She shows me her phone.

“No it looks great!” Was that a hermit crab I just saw?

“Okay, cool. Do you want to f**k?”

“That would be splendid.”

Absolutely none and all of this happened: this is me trying to write drunk at a party; people catching me in their inebriated glances on the couch smacking at the typewriter on the coffee table surrounded by red cups and beer caps. I do this to confuse people and it gives me a personal laugh. The following is a product of hazy memory, and/or reality:

“Hey what are you doing?”

A different girl in a bikini sits next to me on the couch.

“I'm writing.”

“I know, but why?”

“It's what I do.”

“But why?”

“I like to write the truth of the lies.”

“What?”

“I said I want to f**k you in the a*s.”

“My friend Laura says that these are what people used before phones to text. Is it true?”

Referring to the typewriter, she points with her nose and sniffs the ink in the air.

“Yes, it is true.”

“Who are you texting?”

“Are you f*****g retarded or just drunk?”

“Haha, omg, you're like -- soooo funny!”

My actual texting device vibrates in my pocket and I take it out and there are four unread  messages from Carl. This is them in chronological order, obviously:

Hey man found this hot b***h out by the bonfire, she has tattoo of Dave Grohl on her tits.

Dude! This b***h is blowing me!

Hey where you at

You better not be typing your s**t again

I go to put the phone back in pocket and find that this b***h is actually giving me a blow job. She is leaning forward over my crotch and I can see down her shirt and the smiling face of a Foo Fighter looks up at me.

      I reach over to the typer and finish my sentence:

….and then all the Maladies fell from the sky, their breasts sang of forever.

Carl walks in the room and sees the b***h blowing me, points, then laughs, then scratches his head, stutters, and turns around and leaves the room. I feel kinda weird, doing this in front of anybody and everybody, but s**t, whatever.

The next week I find myself somewhere in Texas. Don't ask me why.

I go into a bar and sit at the booth. Terrible country music is playing in the dim stillness. I look around. There is one person drinking in the corner. An older bartender asks me what I'll have.

“Three shots of your finest whiskey.” I've always wanted to say that.

The son of a b***h scowls at me, and then says, “Identification, please.”

“What is this? The early two 000's? F*****g pour me a stiff one.”

Someone in the bar shouts, 'That's what she said.'

` “You know what?” I ask to nobody and everyone, “That is what she said, to me, last night, after she kissed your Dad goodnight.”

The bartender grabs my wrist with his meaty hands and doesn't let go. I try to yank them away but his grip is too strong.

“So that's why I wake up in the middle of the night and my wife ain't there. Why you two timing b*****d cocksucker.”

I say, “So you are saying you're married to a man?”

“Go f**k yourself, Mr. California.”

“How the f**k do you know I'm from California?”

“Look at your shirt.”

I look down. It says Mr. California on it.

I take out my wallet and show him my I.D.

“There, see? I'm twenty six.”

“No you're not, you son of a b***h.” He grabs my other wrist with his free hand. “You're from California!”

“I know that, but what does it matter? I'm over twenty-one!”

The bartender whistles and then shouts, “Jimmy, get the f**k over here and help me whip this boys a*s.”

I hear a vague reply in the darkness of the back of the bar, apparently Jimmy, says, “O.K, Pa.”

I panic. I feel the hurried footsteps vibrate the floorboards. Jimmy stands behind me, I can feel his sudden presence.

Bartender says, “Jimmy, go get your mother.”

“O.K. Pa.”

Jimmy runs off, never saw his face, never will.

“Now, you listen, you son of a b***h. Is this what you do? Just go around from town to town, f****n' bartenders wives?”

“WHAT? NO!” I shout, in fear for my stupid life, “I WAS JUST JOKING!”

“Now, I'll tell you what, boy, if my wive says you raped her last night--”

“RAPE? NOW I RAPED SOMEONE? WHAT THE F**K?”

“--then I am going to shove this bottle of whiskey up your a*s and smack it with this here baseball bat that I got behind the bar and break that bottle to pieces until you s**t glass, you wont be able to smile in the Taco Bell bathroom anymore because you'll be shitting bloody turds with broken glass in your a*s, boy, do you want that?”

“NO, PLEASE DON'T”

“Shut the F**K up, boy.”

I am crying. I am so emotionally exhausted that I don't even remember this event from the first person perspective, but the third:

The old woman enters the bar. She is with her young son Jimmy, who she loves and adores more than Sandals shores. At the bar is a skinny lad being held down by the bartender. The skinny lad is crying, scared for his life. 

“What in the name of George Double-U Bush is goin' on here, Ted?” asks the old woman.

The bartender looks up, red faced from screaming.

“Did this boy lay with you last night, Martha?”

“What? Ted, I don't know what you're--”

“THIS BOY?” 

Ted the Bartender grabs the skinny lads face and twists his neck around to face his old wife Martha. Pops and cracks are audible from beneath the skinny lad's neck, but the country music swallows it.

“Oh, my, I --  I, uhh, Ted, I don't know what to say. It just felt right. It was only --”

“You fucked this guy? Really Martha? After forty seven years together? You go out and f**k around with high school students --” (skinny lad shouts, “I'm twenty six!”) “--behind my back and don't even think twice to invite me in on the fun?”

“Oh, Ted, I just thought--”

Skinny Lad screams, “WHAT THE F**K? I NEVER FUCKED THE OLD B***H!”

Martha walks over and puts her hand on Skinny Lads a*s. “Oh but we did.”

“Shut the hell up, Martha. Jimmy!” Ted whistles again. Jimmy walks over to the side. Ted holds Skinny Lads face to the bar top. “Jimmy, get the baseball bat.”

“Dad, I don't think,”

“JIMMY! DO AS I SAY!”

“Dad, I don't think this is such a good --”

Ted swings a left fist thru the air and it knocks Jimmy out like a gophers head and a shovel.

Ted grabs the baseball bat from under the bar. He walks over and tells Martha to move.

“F**K OFF MARTHA!”

“But Ted, it didn't mean anything--”

There is a dull sounding pop, and Martha falls to the floor. Dead. 

Ted puts the baseball bat against Skinny Lads face, smearing it red.

“What is your name boy?”

Skinny Lad whimpers, “Sevin.”

“Sevin? What the f**k? Like the number?”

“SURE,”

“That's a stupid f*****g name, kid.”

“Mister, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, but I never had sex with your dried up old raisin cunted wife, never in a million f*****g years would I --”

“SHUT THE F**K UP!” 

Ted slams the baseball bat on the bar top next to Sevin's head. The bang! hurts his ears and he thinks to himself that he is going to die tonight.

Ted walks around with the bat and a bottle of whiskey.

“Pull down your pants, son.”

“MISTER PLEASE I DIDN'T F**K YOUR GRANNY!”

“Pull them down or this bat is going against your skull.”

After about a minute and a half of convulsive crying, Sevin got his jeans below his knees.

“Perfect.”

Ted placed the tip of the bottle in Sevin's a*****e, and made him hold it.

“PLEASE DON'T DO THIS.”

Ted raised the bat and did a few practice swings.

“On the count of three,”

“NO! NO!”

“One,”

“NO, PLEASE DON'T.”

“Two,”

“NO, NO, DON'T, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY I FUCKED YOUR WIFE!”

Ted lowered the bat. 

“What did you say?”

“I SAID I'M SORRY I HAD SEX WITH YOUR WIFE!”

Ted dropped the bat to the floor. 

“Much better.”

Sevin looked behind him with teary red eyes, red face. He saw the bat on the ground. Ted the bartender looked at him and laughed. Sevin realized he still firmly held the whiskey bottle against his tangled sphincter. Through sobs, he managed to say, “What?”

“I just wanted to hear you say the truth.”

(right here is when I start to remember things from my own perspective)

I turn around. Ted looks at me warmhearted-like and smiles. He opens his arms for a hug, and begins to tear up himself.

I look down at the dead old lady with a puddle of old lady stew next to her bashed in skull and throw up onto unconscious Jimmy.  The bottle falls from my grip to the floor but doesn't break.

Ted says, “Give me a hug, son.”

“What?”

“Give me a hug. I am so proud that you don't lie anymore.”

“What the f**k are you talking about?”

“You told the truth.”

I pull up my jeans and buckle them.

“What the f**k --”

“You admitted to f*****g my wife.”

“Dude, I don't know what the f**k you're talking about. I never fucked the old lady.”

Ted picks up the baseball bat.

“Drink up, son. Tonight we celebrate.”

He points to the bottle that was just in my a*****e.

“No, I don't--”

“DRINK UP!” raising the bat level with my head..

Later I eventually got the hell out of Texas. I wound up somewhere in Mexico with Carl's sister Megan. We go into a restaurant in the evening after me f*****g her in the a*s at our s****y motel room. Once we get in the restaurant we notice that all the waiters and waitresses (servants) are midgets (servants) and we both look at each other like, WTF?

Megan has a fear of midgets ever since she watched the Wizard of Oz high on LSD at my house a couple summers ago after I fucked her in the a*s. So we left and found a different place to eat, by the beach.

Overlooking the Gulf of Mexico is a restaurant by the name of La Cereza, which means something, but I don't have an iPhone to look up the translation. I am curious, and when me and Megan are seated, I ask to borrow her cell phone.

“Sure.” she says, hands me her phone, and lights a Crimson Cig, which are legal here in the Latin desert.

I touch the internet app and the screen opens to some really nasty gay porn.

“Eww, GOD. What the F**K, MEGAN?”

“What?” all innocent-like.

“What the f**k is this s**t?” I show her the screen.

“Oh, God, What the hell, Sevin, that's not f*****g funny, that's disgusting.”

“What are you talking about, this is your phone!”

“I never looked that up, whats wrong with you, you think that I'm into that s**t?”

A homosexual Latino walks by and sees whats on the screen. He smiles and says something in broken English to me, but his voice is tainted with lisps (lithps) I can't tell what he says so I just flip him off.

“Oh, God.” Megan looks offended.

“What?”

“This morning, when I left the motel to go get some coffee, I bumped into my old boyfriend from college.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He asked to borrow my phone to look something up. It had to be him.”

“Who?”

“Stetson Cumberbach.”

“Who the f**k is -- nevermind. Here,” I give her the phone back, so abruptly disturbed that I forget to even look up what La Cereza means.

 

On the beach by myself I type a letter to Carl on my Royal. I don't like where I was going with it -- mentioned to many times that I fucked his sister in her butt -- so I bury it in the sand. Wind catches the nonexistent weight of the sand and blows it in the keys of the typewriter. I get pissed and scream at the clouds. Then I think I'm probably the only son of a b***h out here with a typewriter on the beach, writing a traditional letter to his friend. I dig the letter back up, suddenly proud of my actions for no reason. Later I fold it into an envelope and send it Carl's way.

Catoyo ganza il ethrae gonto canto. (the end is all we have to look forward to)

F**k, the smell of vagina is stuck in my nose, my dick already caught scent of it and I wake with some b***h's (Megan's) c**t grinding against my face, my nose poking her brown eye, and my teeth gnawing at her lips. She divides the 69 in half and we are lined up normally, and she humps my erect  3rd leg. I wonder if I remembered to record Breaking Bad. Megan slips her tongue down my throat and licks my heart. It tickles. She says if its okay if she can keep her vagina in my pocket, and like a NyQuil high, I fall and wake up again -- it was just a dream.

In the shower the next day I smell my fingers. They smell like cherries. I wash my hair and look down at my feet. The typewriter sits there. Why? Why is the typewriter with me in the shower?

Megan says from somewhere (nowhere), “Sand got up in the crevices. It was annoying me so I had to wash it ----”

I wake up, again, to my voice saying something on its own, and Megan talking along. 

“There is sand in my vagina, Sevin.”

“There is salt in my a*****e, Megan.”

“Yeah that was a dumb dare.”

I stop typing. Carl comes back in the room with some b***h. They sit next to me on the couch.

“Hey, Sev, what are you writing?”

I pluck the papers from the table, and pull the current one out of the mouth of the typer.

“Nothing, just a letter to my Grandma.”

The b***h says, “Oh, that is so sweet, you love your Grandma?”

“Yes, of course I love my Grandma.”

Carl pours me a shot. “Here. Take a sip.”

I down the shot, and then suddenly feel like having sex.

“Hey, b***h, find me some of your fellow p***y. It is time.”

A couple weeks later some whorish voice says to me over a live telephone call:

“I'm pregnant with your child and I want you to marry me.”

I hang up and go sit in my car. There is weed in there, and I roll a joint and smoke it. My neighbor Hank walks out to his mailbox and sees me smoking in my car. He smiles and waves and walks over and leans down to talk to me but when he realizes I'm not smoking a cigarette but marijuana, his smile fades.

“You, know, Sevin, my son was addicted to smoking cannabis, and I can say from a fathers point of view it ruined his life.”

Oh, God, I don't want to get into this with Hank right now, but something tells me to continue.

“Hank, have you ever even tried marijuana?”

He looks down and says, “Well, no, I haven't, but I don't need to try it to know that it's bad.”

“Hank,” I say, “come in.”

“No, I shouldn't.”

“Hank, what have you done the past fifteen years? Nothing. You've sat in your house hoping you'll see your wife's ghost and masturbated to thoughts of your wedding night and consumed enough Twinkies to impregnate Rosie O'Donald. You haven't had any excitement in years. Am I right?”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

He opens the door and sits next to me. 

“Why does it smell so bad?”

“It smells good, Hank.”

I give him a hit off the joint.

“Hold it in.”

In minutes we're both laughing about something about scrotum's and we decide to smoke another one. Hank puts his seat-belt on.

“I don't want to get pulled over.”

Author's Note

But you did, didn't you?

Reviews

[Konigin]

I loved the fact that it reminded me of a stream of consciousness! I was intrigued by the title but I read the entire thing. A little confusing, but so is life I guess!

Interesting read. :)

[Chadvonswan]

Thanks alot for reading this piece of madness haha!!

[Konigin]

Welcome! :)

[Laura Lynn]

I read it! The title has that draw I guess, but it seems like the kind of thing a guy would write for an audience of men, though women would like to read it too. I don't know it depends on different experiences. It doesn't sound like the funnest experience ever, but it must have been in some light, like some kind of strange discipline it is surrounded by strange adventures. I don't pretend to understand it not being able to decipher entirely between the exaggerated elements and those which actually occurred, not that anything recorded in here is not possible, but I hope you did not witness some of these things, though they happen in movies all the time and it is quite troublesome, I have still not reconciled myself with death, I guess people have to be careful what they say

[Chadvonswan]

Wow , I am surprised that you read this, haha. Im not so proud of this piece, and yeah I have to agree with what you said about how this is more of a guy oriented story. I did write this piece under some influence mixed in with boredom. I guess thats how s**t gets made