Dionysus quickly opened his old, tired mouth.
He coughed violently and spat a warm salty dog
into his empty mug. It was a solid mass of
goo, almost rubber; almost civilised. His ears
were dripping wax and eyes were bloodshot red.
His knotted hair twisted corkscrew floor-bound,
long greasy locks of brown hippie style. He
burped loudly, a small pool of electric bile stung
the back of his throat. Punk rock music
blasted through the darkened room, shouting
a dithyrambic rhythm. Psychotic eyes peered
towards the shadowy, pale faces around him.
Empty bottles in the trash, countless one night
stands. Sex, drugs and punk rock - a chaotic mind.
An ounce of cocaine sat piled-high upon the
dirty table. A quick look to the left then look
back with flared nostrils and beating primal
heart. He grinned a junky grin. A pound
note; sticky, crusty, wet at one end. Silver
foil burnt on one side. Codeine pills filled a
pocket. A joint burned away in his mouth.
Smoke snaked about his person like a mystic
fog. A bottle of methadone was a good
friend indeed. Mushroom tea for lunch,
he drank the tadpoles eagerly. Stomach
cramps, vomit, a grey tint on his skin. A
large collection of coloured pills lay quietly
in a drawer, waiting for a dream. Small
squares of coloured paper - reality suffocated
and twisted around.
Slippery eels, sunken cities,
eternal thoughts a blanket.
The trees so splendid,
the fish alive.
We shall dine upon a merry feast,
Cold sweat crept over his
body like a second skin. Opium pipe at his
side, screaming for mercy. What kind of