THE DOG’S STILL PISSING ON THE ROSES
No belief in loving me. Self care goes out the window when all you’ve got is yourself. I’ve been disconnected from the rest since the day I left mothers womb. Disconnected or misconnected I’m not sure. But there has definitely been a lack of connection. Who would have thought 20 years and 37 days ago when I popped onto this mound that I’d feel so cuntish now, 20 years and 37 days later. The cunt, the cunt who couldn’t make a real friend if he tried. The only solace he found was simulated through synthetic means. The psychedelics helped to connect him to the earth he laid upon and the people he surrounded himself with but the more he utilised them, the further he felt himself drift spiritually from both of these facets. With each dose he began to feel increasingly cold about the world around him. So he hit the bottle. And he hit it hard jack. And when he gets drunk he gets. When that pay check lands he spunks it in a matter of days just to get rid of the pain that Lizzie’s face gives him. Even when she’s trapped behind that plastic card with a chip in it, the card only helps ease the pain momentarily as he frivolously digs through grands in a matter of weeks, sometimes days. And when that chip finally declines he finds a sense of relief. Finally free from the pressures of his thirst for intoxication. Free to think. And the when the money’s gone he doesn’t really feel too bad about the world. He stops to look at the roses, stroke the dogs in the park. But oh boy when that cheque hits again, he is swiftly reminded, the dog will always piss on the roses...