Poem: Vodka Strike (Slight Edit)

This poem can be viewed in it's hot fetus form here:

I am happier however with this slightly altered version. Is it too long?



I’m on strike

It’s decided it’s official

I don’t like

How superficial

And cliché I’ve become!

I’m drinking on street corners

At quarter past one

As everybody scorns us

“You stinking student layabouts!

Your throats and stomachs are bottomless

AA Centres’ the other way, you louts!

You fucking hippopotamus!

Go wallow in the mud!

Happiness isn’t in a bottle

So really you should

Go home before I throttle

You! You mindless drunken students

First comes liver cancer - then you die!"

The taunts were not exactly prudent.

And as said mindless drunken student I -

Should slide neatly to conclusion.

That being told that you might die

Is not a comforting intrusion.

So I guess we shouldn’t celebrate

Our blatant self-debauchery

I’m going to get a job

And do all of my laundry

I’m not going to sob

About it, I’m just going to quit

All the alcohol that’s assembling

In my unrestricted pit

Of a stomach that’s trembling

And begging for more

My brain needs the stimulant

And if anyone’s keeping score

You should know I’ve always been ambivalent

To pouring treasured nectar

Down the ol’ oesophagus

For getting flipping wrecked the

Whole thing is preposterous

A tribulation and a sin

But now my life is just a cocktail

Of trepidation and gin

So I’m going on strike and I shall not dither

About plastering up protest signs

And handcuffing my liver,

And throwing out my best friends' wines

(My default birthday gifts)

That they bought for me - from the heart

Of the offy between their shifts

Well - they’re still doing their part.

But for now I’m on strike

“You can’t slack off the cider maaate!”

Well actually I can do as I like

And surely I’m not a mate if I really fucking hate

You! The girl who hasn't been vertical in life, ever?

From what I’ve learnt you seem to be on the floor

Horizontal for the most of it - how clever

But how do you ever get things done? I abhor

My slightly sozzled self, that girl is a chore

A whore, a bore, caressing the floor

On her knees Oliver-style begging for more

So - no- more.

I am entering the realm of the teetotal

It sounds pretty good from just the word

I can’t wait to be so anecdotal

I'll tell the world of what I’ve heard

About staying sane and not drinking instead

From the ears of a sober person and the oculus

Of a restrained identity not drunk off her head

Like a giant one legged octopus

A few months pass by, and I’ve so far stayed true

Empty vodka bottles line my bin, so

I’m no longer like you

Wanting more Cheeky Vimto

Undulating on the carpet

Brassiere round your ankles

Smashing up a guitar kit

As my good nature rankles

You and everyone at all of our parties

As I do the good kind of Coke

And you do the wrong kind of Smarties…

But something is wrong.

A feeling about to jerk me

Towards that terrible throng

That’s a coop of cold turkeys

You see - nobody told me

That seeing life more clearly

Just demonstrates the futility

Of the world, of the mind, of the voice - and of me!

And besides. None of my friends like me anymore

I ring them everyday

But they're out destroying brain cells by the score

In every membrane, in every way

And I guess I sort of miss it.

Nothing like an alcoholic refresher

To piss all over my tea and biscuits

And just give in to my peer pressure...

It probably defeats the object

Of all my defiant work

My little tee total project

Of course did have it's perks

But fuck it - I want friends.

I crave our cloddish banter

So to Bargain Booze I will descend

Pouring out the Diet Fanta.

So yes I know I don't know much

But I think I do know

That a slight vodka touch

To the mind can't be so

Bad after all.

Everything in proportion!

So once I get that phone call

Asking me to immerse in distortion

Inebriation, celebration and dissaray

My morals have gone

So I sigh and I say

'Alright, just for a small one.'