Today, Of Tomorrow

Alcohol is my default. Drunkeness a refuge for the insecurities and bitterness that dwell in these bones, indeed my very soul. Alcoholics (we rabid, wild flowers), regard intoxication as medicine who crave it as instinctively as breathing. To be born an addict, as there is no choice in this matter, is to be born with a heavy, persistant darkness that one learns quickly can be made bearable through liberal use of alcohol or pills (or both). So fast is this knowledge one is tempted to be overly dramatic with descriptions of angels and divine solutions but truth is more mundane, fact is that self preservation is as much part of the human fabric as any fraility and the minute we boozers get a taste of our 'medicine', addiction sets in. A wretched journey of despair, pain, lies, loathing and filth. A journey not everyone survives. In fact, I would wager more die from addiction than are accounted for because by its nature it is a disease that instills secrecy.

Today, Of Tomorrow 

 All of the horrors are given and known, have been lived through time and time again, yet the temptation of another drink remains. Not small and insignificent, harmless in the background but lurking on every thread of thought, constant in its danger to sobriety. A relentless bloodlust that should I ever lessen my grip on sobriety will ravish my soul with unspeakable terrors, as it has many times before. Sobriety isn't a natural state for me, in years distant I have used my powers of manipulation and deceit to avoid it at any cost. Today I am five years clean but its not game over. It is never game over. There is too high consequence in wanting a drink today. There is never a today. Today in drink becomes tomorrow in drink, and tomorrow after that, on and on it slides into oblivion. Like thousands of other alcoholics, the trickster becomes the tricked. The grain mistress has no equal when it comes to seductive poisons.

 Ode to Zero

 Alas I must refrain from pretty words for fear of getting distracted and this would be fatal with this disease. To put it bluntly: there are those of us where tomorrow must cease to exist. There can be no healing finish line in this race. The minute I allow to trust in tomorrow, is when things get dark. Get grim and bloody. Tomorrow is a new slate, a reset and if I believe in those, I am in danger today. Too many times I have indulged today, believing tomorrow was a new day that wouldn't bring the craving and therefore I would be safe. Alcoholism doesn't do safe. It wants you to trust. It wants to be an old friend. It wants you to put faith in it. And we all fall down.

Rights Away, Right Away

So more drugs are getting in prisons eh? Simple! Ban visiting to inmates. Does Dai Jakes have to think of everything? Its entirely their fault their locked up in the first place so little sympathy should afforded them. Take away their 'human rights' the instant they break the law so they cant whine we're breaching any rights, and for the term of the sentence the prisoner has less rights than a garden slug. A HMP prison visiting room must be an awfully desperate place to spend an afternoon for the family so my guess is they would be secretly over the moon at not having to travel to see their wayward family member. What doest thou think dear reader? Too draconian?
We could always go the other way and allow them all the narcotics they wish so they could drop like flies and be less burden on taxpayers? Either way works for Mr Jakes. And please don't try to bruise me with name calling (apart from 'barbaric', I like that one), its merely a suggestion and hardly ever likely to happen now is it? I burnt my toast earlier and just needed to vent.

Houston, We Have A Problem

Whitney Houston is dead.
And Piers Morgan has said said "Bobby Brown is the man everybody wishes Whitney never met. Her life spiraled out of control when she did."

Thats right, blame someone else. Its eaier. But its utter nonsense. I know a fair bit about drugs as it happens and thats like saying Sid Vicious' life was wrecked by Nancy. (She introduced Sid to heroin). But here's the rub, he would have found heroin on his own with or without her. Houston would have to, believe me. I took hard drugs myself and it wasn't peer pressure, I wanted them. So did Sid, so did this Houston woman.
Piers obviously hasn't a clue as to what he's talking about. The simple fact of the matter is that Houston partied hard (as she loved doing) only this time she lost. Good game girl! I know my end will come much the same way, I expect it. And won't be the least bit sorry when it happens.
Those of us who love to indulge in the wilder side of life know the risks and a fair few are quite willing to pay the dear price.
But I understand the common man's wish to put the blame on somebody else, like I said, its easier.

What The Doc?

So the good doctor Conrad Murray has been found guilty of the involuntry manslaughter of the 'king of pop' Michael Jackson and faces four years in prison. Naturally Jacksons supporters are over the moon and stood outside the court shouting things like 'burn in hell Murray!' A pox on them all.
Have they forgotten what the singer was suspected of? I for one certainly haven't and I shed no tears from him being where is right now. Good riddance to the creep sez I.
Junkies die every day, its part and parcel of living that way. Doctor Murray wasn't forcing drugs down his 'patients' throat, or jamming them into his arms. Jackson wanted the pills and wanted them so badly that he was paying the physician £93,000 a month to have them. Its been reported that nutty Jacko ordered a four gallon vat of Propofol and if this is true is it any wonder he is dead? Propofol is a very powerful anaesthetic used in operating theaters, hardly a normal sleep aid.
But Michael Jackson was never normal. He wasn't weird in a cool way however, he was weird in a creepy, weak sort of way and if it wasn't for the fact that he was one of the biggest selling artists on the planet, nobody would have wanted anything to do with the man.


Thriller

Which brings me nicely to the Moonwalkers family. They say now that they love him and miss him, blah, blah, blah but where in the world of Peter Pan were they when he was ill? Anyone with a working pair of eyeballs could see that the man was in a bad way. Why did none of them attempt to intervene and try to arrest his deadly addiction? It goes on all the time with junkies in America im told, yet nobody bothered with Jackson, who was seemingly allowed to consume these narcotics as if he were eating popcorn.
I have been a drug user in the past and to get myself out of it I had to take personal responsibilty for my weakness to get control back.
Evidently nobody wanted this for Michael Jackson. He wanted his drugs and that led to its inevitable conclusion. Which is why if I could wave a magic wand and clear doctor Conrad Murray of any wrong doing, I would.

The Wine Is On The House

Excuse the cheap title, its a sunday and I feel lazy.
The world and its cockles know that singer Amy Winehouse died yesterday (July 23rd) and most of the people were deeply saddened by the news. A young woman, blessed with talent in abundance, gone too soon to the rock gig in the sky. Although I am a keen supporter of hard living, I do feel for her family and loved ones who are left with broken hearts. I know only too well what its like to lose cherished people to drink and drugs, and even when you expect it, its never easy when the curtain does eventually fall.
Personally speaking I would have loved to have met up with Amy and shared a few shots but thats for another time now.
What is annoying however is the medias obssession with this Club 27 rubbish. Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain and now Amy all dead at age 27. *Cue Twilight music* Is it only me who thinks its simply coinsidence? I dont believe that somewhere in the Afterlife there is an exclusive club for tarnished rock stars. They all indulged in drugs and had the money to do so freely, thats what offed them so young. Not some hokus pokus jinx of an age.
Straying slightly, this news does reinforce what I hhave always believed; talent always comes at a price. Its a damned shame that Ms Winehouse had to pay after only two albums. Her music was not my usual cup of tea but I could listen to it at times without switching to something harder. Something harder. Yes the tick which allows some of us to conjure up great words and music always drives us toward the Something Harder nail.
Amy's tune 'Rehab' covered it perfectly I feel. When her family and 'handlers' tried telling her to seek some help, she not only dismissed the idea completely but released a massive "F**K YOU" to them. Publicly. (I did it myself with my poem "The ChampionLand". I went to rehab but there was no way I meant to get sober and Im still drinking to this day).
Yes its sad whats happened but my sympathies lay with her family. This young lady wasn't stupid, she knew what she was doing as all us boozehounds do. We realise death is creeping up on us but its our life.

Warning: Can Cause Frustration

Mouth abscesses are miserable and painful things, and one of them decided to haunt my mouth earlier this week, so off I went to the supermarket to get a packet of Co~codamol tablets which contain 8mg of the lovely codeiene and 500mg of the rather boring paracetamol. Needs must and a few aspirin just wasn't going to give me the relief from pain that I so desperately craved.
Mission accomplished I headed home and it was there that I noticed something I have never noticed before. (Or I have but don't remember it.) On the box was stamped ~ Can cause addiction and For three days use only. See photo below.


Watch out! Nanny's been about!

When on earth did this start happening? And is it really necessary? Okay some people are idiots and need to have things spelt out for them, I understand that but for a fairly intelligent and sensible (mostly) man like myself, reading this made me feel a kind of despair. Like we are all bozos who need to be guided through Life by governments and watchdogs like chimps or circus seals.
I find it quite insulting that we cannot be trusted. Granted there are certain sections of society who prove not everyone is blessed with wisdom but its offensive to suggest that everyone is an imbecile, hellbent on killing himself through ignorance.
And why aren't these warnings on other, stronger drugs? In my time I have been prescribed some pretty addictive substances such as benzodiazepines (valium, mogadon, temazepam, etc) but there are no warnings on them. Why? Seems to me these so called 'health watchdogs,' or whoever puts this soppy advice on tablet boxes are only there to cause frustration and resentment. If you need these things to help you then God save us all!
Also while im on this topic, why can I buy only two packets of paracetamol in most chemists and shops? Thats not going to prevent suicides if thats the aim. I'll just go to a bunch of shops and stockpile the darned things. Easily done too, especially when these 'pound' shops are seemingly exempt from this rule and are able to sell three or four packets for £1.
Ironic isn't it? I bought these pills to escape from pain and the damned wrapping they come in has given me the biggest headache going.

Morphine, My Other Skin

I have taken a fair few illicit substances in my relatively short time on planet earth. From 1991 through to say 2003 I was somewhat reckless (still am to a degree but with only two vices) although I maintained a grip on life regarding work and relationships, and never resorted to criminal behaviour (apart from buying illegal drugs.) I was not a total scumbag, just halfway.
One drug I never 'got' however was cannabis or grass. Sure I smoked it and smoked it plenty, either in spliffs, bongs or buckets, but I never enjoyed it. It never once got me feeling good or high, just sick. The reason I carried on smoking it was simply because it was there and freely available. But I never got off on it and couldn't understand those who did.


The last syringe I ever used

To me cannabis was a cheap and ineffective drug. Even 'skunk' the so called high performace version of cannabis failed to tickle my drug receptors. I think the closest I ever got to being high from pot was feeling dizzy. The drug made no sense to me (if drugs are meant to be sensible.)
Morphine and 'downers' such as valium and mogadon were much more to my liking. I fell for those chalked beauties like there was nothing else on earth to fall for. As soon as I took them I knew they would be my drug of choice, and although I was a fairly keen user of amphetamine and LSD, they would never set foot in the shrine I soon built for opiates and downers. I bloomed on them.
Others will say it was like crawling back into the womb for them but I didn't feel that way. I just knew my soul had found something utterly delicious. It didn't kill pain because I had no pain, it was just right and I was fortunate enough to escape having to sell my soul for it. I experienced no depravity, no ravages, and in a way that made it worse. To only see the delights of something so dangerous can be a curse in itself. Blind to the negative side of morphine it fuelled me further, I was 'built' for the chemical. The needle jab, the rush, the loss of breath.
I loved even the ritual of preparing the drug for injection into my soft, willing, tattooed skin. It almost over~shadowed my beloved alcohol and indeed would have done had it been as easily available. I suffered no hangovers with opiates and benzodiazipines but alas the company one must keep (or at least be familiar with) in order to score such delights is dreadful. A cul de sac of culture, a place where ignorance rules supreme. Thieves and modern cut~throats, racists and loafers, definately not a group to want to be a part of and yet I was. For the pleasure of laying down in drugged pastures, this softly spoken, kind poet had to dine with sharks and robbers. At the time I thought it was worth it.

Poet's last kiss

I don't know if morphine made me any more creative as I have always been pretty consistent in regards to churning out my poetry, essays, etc but it did send me on different chute (so in a way it did fire creativity) and it did instill a wave of calm into my writing. After the act. I never once composed under the influence of drugs I hasten to add. Ideas were stored but I was too cocooned in the wonderful buzz to actually record poetry from narcotics in real time.
My warnings to youngsters wanting to try opiates or downers would be a little different from the main naysayers. True, I did not slay any dragons or discover any hymns whilst under the influence, and I definately do not recommend the morphine vacation but its not all stories from the trenches. Or the graveyard.
Out of the bottle or syringe, the needle had the less sting.