I Like Being Fucked Up

I like being fucked up!
Mashed, Smashed, Messed up,
I like being fucked up!
Out of control, on my own, on a mission, blurred vision,
The night’s still young and I’m going to party,
I’m going to paint the town red,
Make a bed of a sofa or a floor.
Pushing myself for that little bit more,
More excitement, more thrills, more spills,
Living a lifestyle that is trying it’s best to kill
Me. I like being fucked up!
Not sure it likes me,
Beer turns to whisky far too quickly,
Sickly memories merge.
Mornings after demand retribution,
Bloodshot eyes. I laugh my way through the pain,
“No pain, no gain,” right?
Hair of the dog:
A shot of embarrassment mixed with shame.
I like being fucked up!
I want to lose control.
I want to wreck it all.
I want to tear down the edifices that restrain me,
I want to scream “You can’t retain me!”
And that feeling, I like it just that bit too much.

Stodge Angels and Whisky Demons

Singing with the angels through the lifeline of a breakfast baguette, (Bacon, Sausage and Egg are always better served with a hangover and regret) I’m losing my mind to this golden rhyming time that’s lost to a thousand other voices in here, that question everything, that say nothing other than the things that come out straight down the middle, a little riddle, a ponderance or two. There’s a McFilth Breakfast for everyone that needs one – mainline the coffee, it’s perky, worked up in a lather that tastes sweet to its victims as it rolls monstrously fast over moist egg and grease glistening skin. Masking the taste of Lagavulin. Divine salutations offer happy ever afters whilst you dance with the devils within.

For everyone sat there with nothing better to do than drink themselves stupid

Downed drinks drown their stagnant realities
Their conscious crises ebb and wane away
His body thaws to that broken measure
Just so much pain it’s her only pleasure

In the mundane you dream of a bottle
The mediocrity blurred by the bubbles
Unfound pleasures rest with magnum green glass
Dance merrily merry men as though this drink’s your last

Mornings after speak of memories lost
Bulbous noses, reddened faces, inflated navel places
A lifetime dedicated to forgetting it all
He sits with his drunk wife he’s drunk ‘n all