Violence in the streets, degradation in the sheets.
“Mr. Brizell get a bloody hold of yourself. This soul of yours is in ruins. There’s talk of your sickening behaviour, unrepentant sefishness and wild romancing. We want your head”
My sunglasses are askew and I’ve misplaced my heart down a grimy alley.
All in all the week’s off to a bleak start.
It’s quite unnerving, an absence for a day or two. Now there’s far too many instagram dm’s to respond to.
The old runaround is simply to soothe my ego.
I’m punched in the gut, and told to sit up straight and to stop smuggling the flask of vodka into the theatre.
Just because the playwright’s been sober for 3 years and counting, that doesn’t mean I wish to be.
Fucking hell, this might just be a tragedy in the vein of Bourdain.
There’s been some missteps sure, but what good is a love life if the comedown doesn’t have you suicidal?
High is eating out Low;
there’s some moaning, clit licking and I believe there might have even been some foreplay.
Irregardless this is a tinder date gone terribly wrong.
The voyeurs want their money back.
The hotel’s calculating my bill; the mini fridge raided one too many times, the washing of underwear, the ashen cum staining the sheets.
My wallet might be a little empty, but if there’s room for coffee I’m taking it.
This dizzying delight of late might just be the end of the line for me. The dearly departed are singing a Leonard Cohen song, and saying something about light and darkness.
Meanwhile the train’s derailed, some of the passengers are dead and the survivors have gone all Lord of the Flies.
I’m just disgusted my espadrilles have some blood on them.
Surreal trances eh, they never go away till it’s too late.
Ben Brizell 