Under The Bridges of Paris

there was wine
lots of it
consumed in bottles
down numb throats
they poured
I swallowed
my bordello camaraderie
my sorrows
the pain
for a night forgotten
came and found me
Ugly and wasted
as pus from a dead boil
Twisted and sprawled
A cobweb of limbs
Under the bridges of Paris
Tis where I lay and dreamed


Writer’s Block – a period in a writer’s career during which alcohol and women change from being a source of inspiration and become either a hindrance or an escape.



a work of fiction 


it was on a bank holiday

when he got into a battle with reality.

he lost that fight.

It began with cravings for social depravities

the night called and he answered

he mapped his route to the forbidden land

hailed his posse

and went a-hunting

many bottles later, muddled faces on the wayside

his already low standards get buried in the dirt

the following dawn, he knew not her name

but he was certain he came

the sight of the rubber

still hanging from his member

almost fetched a smile

but for the cranial bane

Was it worth it?

of course

Wine, after all, is the drink of the gods.