The Binge

Entombed in the back bedroom of a terraced house, bewildered, bemused and anticipating indulgence coupled with foreboding despair. Striking the balance between intoxication and two looming forces, withdrawal and blackout. Reaching for the luke warm strong white cider not knowing if it’s dusk or dawn. Guzzling the unpalatable source of replenishment to the point of despair and disgust. Wretchedness.

Beard growth, greasy hair, unkept fingernails, sallow skin. Blood shot eyes, rancid breath, fur lined tongue, bile emptying from acid stripped gullet and accompanying stomach. Bloated and deprived of nourishment.

Floating, transient existence. Questionable energy resource other than the incessant need to consume alcohol. Wash when I get back, they won’t smell my breath through the perspex. Grappling with the urge, the need, the obsession, the futility and banality of addiction.

Warped perspective, vision similar to a wide angle lens. I see everything, crystalised, and yet my senses betray and beguile. The approach to the hallowed purveyor of said article so desperately required is imminent. Unable to salivate, body like an absorption of all that is fulfilling. Piss like mucous, running non existent snot manifesting as moist sniffles. The door to the elusive treasure trove of tremendous trepidation and insurmountable suffering awaits, beckoning like an alluring hazard. The metal door handle is bulbous and I know it’s to be pushed as opposed to pulled. I literally use my body weight to shoulder the door ajar.

Relief shrouds my very being, behold, the answer, the cure. Without hesitation and doubt, my salvation.