ANOTHER FUCKING DAY

I like to have a Martini. Two at the very most. After three, I’m under the table. After four, I’m under my host.

Dorothy Parker

Saturday, December 19, 2009

ANOTHER FUCKING DAY


By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns


Drink till you can’t stand up.
Drink till you puke on the carpet.
Drink till the red wine spews out of your ass.
Imbibe until it kills you.
After all, death isn’t so bad.
It’s better than working at telemarketing
And always being broke.
Shoot up till you overdose.
What a fucking way to go, baby!!
Stick that effing needle in your arm and fly to the moon.

Snort coke till your nose haemorrhages.
Till you have a seizure.
Nobody cares whether you live or die.
Maybe all my paintings and writing will go in the dumpster when I kick the bucket.
All that fucking work down the drain.

So give me a bottle of lye, just like that fabulous actress, Rachel Roberts.
She killed herself over Rex Harrison who farted on stage, once.
I wouldn’t look twice at that asshole but she died for him, violently.
The force of the concoction she ingested propelled her through a glass Chinese screen in her kitchen.
Way to go, Rachel. You fucking rock, baby.

Stick that needle in your arm full of smack and speed.
It killed John Belushi.
Now, if you’re lucky, it’ll do the same for you.

I’m just pissing in the wind, here.
No one is listening.
Everyone I know is in AA or Narcotics Anonymous.
Let’s just go to sleep.
Forget about all the drek and bullshit.
All the bills you can’t pay.
The dreams that never came true.
The ones who never loved you.
Who didn’t want to suck your dick.

The pretty blonds who slipped through your grasp.
The success that eluded you.
All the nightmares that came true.
The fantasies that remained just that: illusions and disillusionments.

Pour another glass of Coke.
Spike it with Southern Comfort and just a touch of hemlock.
Give me a dozen reefers.
I don’t even want to know what planet I’m on.
Someone’s down there between my legs
And I don’t give a shit who it is.
If it’s a stinky wino, I don’t give a fuck.
Just get me off.
Shove a hot poker up my ass.
Anything to make me forget about my fucking life.

Montgomery Clift was too fragile for this planet.
He drank himself to death.
Took too many pills.
Yet he was gifted with the talents of a genius.
Let me put my arm around you, Monty.
It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.
You were smart.
You got out while the going was still good.
You didn’t stick around till you needed diapers and a drool cup.
You didn’t mess your pants in the nursing home.

Kenneth Williams, from the Carry-On movies,
Wrote in his journal, “Oh, what’s the bloody use?”
Then he offed himself.
I ask myself the same question, frequently.
But a little voice keeps me going.
This Aquarian feeling that maybe tomorrow will be better.
That I am worth something despite all the shit and piss
Rubbed into my unwilling face, on a daily basis.

This snake pit is an evil place.
I climb up the hill and roll back down into this sewer, again and again.
What is to be done?
Just breath.
Get out of bed. Get ready for the day.
Try not to stink or waste too much time.
Have another drink.
Fill up the syringe.
Load up the hookah.
Get out the rolling papers.
Unzip your fly.
Tomorrow is another goddamned, fucking shitty day.
What the hell is to be done?