Keeping honest

I drink beer, a lot of beer
And lots of beer on funky nights
In the morning, my beer shit
It’s Hiroshima and Nagasaki
With all due respect
To Sake and Lemon Sun.
People offer me wine
Or spirits
I usually stick to beer
I explain that with beer
I never lose control
No blanks
Where you wake up
Somewhere
Not knowing
How you got there
With beer I always
Find a way home.
But that’s not why
I like beer
I like its bitter taste
It reminds me
Of myself when I was a
Poor young fuck
In poor part of town
And beer, bad beer but lots of it,
Was the key to elsewhere.
It still works though
When on my bench, drinking
Still poor
Still looking
For elsewhere

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Misery in Serbia

The night was dark, very dark, if only because in the countryside, may it be communist, there are no lights leading to bumfuck nowhere. So I was driving on a country road, lost somewhat in goddamned Yugoslavia.

It had been dark for quite a while. Snow was shining in the car’s lights. Trees and dark forests, frozen fields, not a soul nor even a headlight in sight. Just a clarinet on the radio trying to tell me this was fun.

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Mönsteria

I was in Münster, Germany, hanging with Harald in this local bar, local meaning poor, hanging meaning drinking beer by the gallon having not much to say and slowly but steadily getting fucked up. And so it was with the other patrons.

This was no party atmosphere. Just guys, workers, in the sad part of town dreaming of better days.

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A comely black girl

It was a warm Saturday night in Chicago. I was living on 17th place in a grim part of town and it was late and I was drinking beer with Ric on the front steps. Which goes to show that Ric and I didn’t have much going on a Saturday night. At best we had tacos and a smile from a Mexican whore or two.

So we were drinking.

It was nice out there and we were in no hurry. If I want, I can even remember the moon.

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Adam says to himself: now that’s an upset (chapter V)

2008 Mingdau University Fashion Fusion Show: T...

I have now been spending a week in my new place by the ocean, waiting for it to be ready for my guests. Indeed, I intend to hire three women to live naked around old Mr. Me so, when I die, the last thing I see is a gift of beauty, at least to my eyes. Yes I could buy paintings and sculptures but those don’t sweat and, in Southeast Asia, it’s warm all the time, often hot.

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