yeah those gut-ripping hangovers are nasty to think about. i wrote a short book of poetry on escaping the bottle. here's one that makes sense here:
Dawn brings no rescue, just grey burning light. Scorches my skin, lacerates my stomach, blinds my dying crusted eyes.
What happened last night?
Try to move, get off the couch. Push against gravity – nothing. Push again – same result – gravity pressures every edge in my trampolining head. On my feet, finally, walls spin, staggered vision. Collapse again.
Fifteen minutes or an hour later, shapes and colours. Familiarity. Two bottles. I don’t remember how they got there. A spiralling ache tears fangs in my shoulder.
Two bottles – proud, empty warriors in that savage nightly battle. Lying empty, one in the kitchen, one near the new kitchen table now in the living room. Both close enough to stagger to, both ready to chicken-fight renew the unquenchable.
The ache in my shoulder crawls up my neck, rises with the hangover. Now in stasis. A balance that will break down. It always breaks down.
The mysterious bruise violent on my arm. Already turning black, purple and deep. I’ll need an excuse at work.
A drink would cure all this. The whirlwind that spins carnival-ride from my head to my stomach and back again, would settle and drift away.
I pull myself out the door – unthinkable distance, unimaginable time hovers over me.
Anyone looking at me can tell. Anyone who can tell would look away.
What the fuck, I know what I need.
death happens every tiniest fragment of time and happens again every smaller tiniest fragment of time and there can be a tiniest fragment of time that makes life worth not losing . . .
