drunk – Cajun Mutt Press

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/31/24

May 31, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Sobering Up

a small wooden pub with a beer tap on every table;
four beers in, I was already feeling the effects.

I pictured Emily sitting across from me, instead of the friends
I’d gone out with for a couple of beers; how we’d have broken all
the pub’s records
(they had a screen on the wall, the all-time record was 35L
by a group who knows how large),
how we’d have loved the ability not to chase down
bartenders more willing to flirt (or drink themselves to a stupor)
than do their fucking job.

few beers in, and my liver began protesting; growing soft,
losing my former championship shape. am I still
a pro, as a few bartenders used to tell me?
do I still have it?

the answer’s probably no, it hurts.
no more chasing the perpetual drunk while able
to function amidst the cloud of inebriation.

I sit sober now, too, recalling the hangover mornings
of pro wrestling and vodka-and-orange juice,
barely able to breathe, let alone walk,

and yet, I’d always find myself back to the bars come afternoon.
I needed the drink; I still need it, I just don’t have it anymore.

speeding towards the age of 28, just a couple of months to join
the CLUB, despite my being no musician, nor exceptionally talented.

I smell bourbon; the bar across the street, a fancy establishment
for Lamborghini-driving motherfuckers, is about to open.

I should go talk to the bartender about the possibility of replacing him.
could I work in a bar, without drinking myself to oblivion every night?

once, I just drank bars dry. oh, the irony, having to be the sober
man serving drinks to carefree drunks and rich assholes.

the coffee’s strong, I’ve nothing to do but dream of other nights and days,
early afternoons of tequila, late nights of bourbon.

I might be going out tonight too, with friends once more. and after a few beers in,
I’ll be ready to be tucked in and soundly sleeping. no more
aimless wandering through the dark streets, drunk, ready to fuck and punch.

lighting a cigarette, in the blue smoke once more I see
Emily’s eyes. almost sense her lips on mine. tasting cheap bourbon
and even cheaper cocaine.

love, I failed you; doing the one thing I promised I’d never do
the night before we went to the abortion clinic and lost it all.
I’m growing up, getting old as fuck; paying the price
of years-long stupors and failed love affairs that’d never replace
what we had.

it’s alright; I’ll just drink my coffee for now, try to make it
in the sex-novel business. soon, and certainly long before I make it to 30,
I’ll either be next to you in the Devil-dealing poker table,
or, in a rundown strip joint, drinking pimps under the table
and comforting dancers that are just too sick of cheap assholes.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press) and Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/21/24

February 21, 2024 James D. Casey IV

today

we used talk of the inaudible noise
sometimes, the unseen,
her and i as opposed to engaging
the deafening silence that she hated
about the distances,
outside, herself; in a book and me.
she thought about dying; a lot,
common among obsessives and bugs
and attentive drunks,
locked in amber stasis,
unchanged, for millions of years
fossilized
in crystalline despair,
stumbling forward, back again
unnoticed through preoccupied centuries
in search of a lost, off course,
perhaps, dead or drunk and already gone astray
tomorrow.

“it must be here.”
“are you sure?”
“no.”
“maybe we should go back.”
“but it can’t be there.”
“why not? it’s today.”
“you mean in the now?”
“yeah… we’ll just kill time, kick the can, like there is no tomorrow.”
“and if by tonight, we still can’t find a shred of evidence or reason for its existence?”
“well, then we wait.”
“on what?”
“i don’t know… the rank of urgency, the delicate aroma of anticipation, or perhaps the warmth of
expectancy? we’ll follow, whichever scent comes first until we find it.”
“hope?”
“yeah… hope.”
“i registered for classes in the fall.”
“really… that’s good.”
“i’m done drinking.”
“okay.”
“i’m going back to school and i want you to write.”
“okay.”
“i want a baby.”
“okay. do you want a ring?”
“no… i want a stone that will never be cast in my direction.”
“you’ve got it love and i will kill any man that touches it.”
“i love you Botched Resignation.”
“i love you too.”

in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.

from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering
drunks.

an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.

Botched Resignation is 100% pure snipe.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 12/22/23

December 22, 2023 James D. Casey IV

Bender Found

lost dance, somewhere in the
bottom of a bottle yet unopened lies the
rhythm that was washed away by
the cruel torrent of reality. as I sustain the
bender for another day, another week, or year even, I’m
struggling to kindle the old fires of passion, of when the
page was ravished nightly by the mad dance on the
keyboard that saw too many of them ruined
and tossed into the common yard of the apartment complex. the insanity
of years-long benders, where sanity was maintained by puffs from
glass pipes and inhalations from burning spoons. nothing
happens, I just get drunk, pass out, kill the hangover with a
rum/vodka/orange concoction, and move to
coffee, trying to edit the lines of inebriation hoping to
find the gems amidst the steaming pile of shit. nothing’s
there, with insanity gone I have
nowhere to go except for down, to the
place modern writers sit, sip Starbucks caramel coffee and talk about
character progression, diversity, inclusivity, and stuff like
that. I once almost punched a classmate in a college class for
trying to overanalyze Hem’s stories. it’s all about rediscovering
the desire to walk near the edge, to drink haphazardly until
you can’t even tell on which side of the canyon you’re on.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 08/28/23

August 28, 2023 James D. Casey IV

MY Coke Fiend

she used to visit
at the most inappropriate times;
usually in the midst of the night
never caring whether
someone else lay
on my bed, couch, floor.

she always, however,
brought at least
two 8balls of pure cocaine.

she had good manners,
My Fey.

often,
she’d scare a good woman
out of my apartment,
mainly because she was tough,
and acted even tougher.

usually, though,
she was already loaded
and that was more than enough
to horrify some of the college students
I met in bars.

I never shooed her away;
she was MY coke fiend,
my friend, my lover.

when she came,
and after we had settled whatever
differences might have arose
with those already in my apartment,

we went for the blow;
four lines each, to warm up.
then,

we cracked a bottle of bourbon;
usually cheap and unknown brand,
sometimes, during good times,
Four Roses or Wild Turkey.

we drank,
and had nothing to talk about,
although we never remained silent
for more than 5 minutes.

her dream was to survive;
mine, to die.

she held my hand
when things got too dark
and the mist turned unbearable.

I kept her in my arms
when her heart was stabbed,
or when
someone tried to pull a fast one on her
(although, most who tried
had very bad endings in
their short stories unworthy of being written).

the coke was always the common bond;
after several lines,
after burning our noses,
and after emptying at least one bourbon bottle,

we went to bed
or remained on the blue couch.

they were heated, passionate fucking sessions,
we both sweated profusely.
usually, I was the first to give up
after years of drinking, smoking,
and the only exercise I’ve done
being lifting glasses of draft beer.

she’d kiss me,
let me catch my breath;
she often laughed,
warmly,
before going back down,
trying to resurrect my dying pieces.

there wasn’t much more in all this;
few months of madness
tied up to one name, one face,
and all those that came and left
in between.

for me,
it’s how life has been,
ought to have been.
short breaks of insanity,
amid the wider circle of sheer madness.

it’s what always worked for me,
nothing else ever did.

and so,
with an 8ball on my desk,
living in a faraway place,
having no idea whether Fey
is still alive or buried somewhere
unceremoniously and unmourned,
I remember those months of
wonderful moments lost
in a blurry haze
and raise a toast to her,

hoping she’s still alright,
still kicking ass,
and that she’ll one day read this
and weep a single tear of joy.

Even Cockroaches have Souls

in a rundown apartment we sat, boozing
another night away isolated from
the world.

we talked aboutnumerous things I’ve
already forgotten, except for
one tiny thing:

“even cockroaches have souls,”

she said when I tried
to step on one that was strolling around us.

I didn’t kill the fucker;
besides, it might have
had more things to live for
than us.

I had a long snort of scotch, then poured
some on the floor. it took a
taste, then stumbled away from us.

we drained the bottle fast.

angry drunk tantrums broke the silence of the night;
someone was chasing the same cockroach
I had shared a drink with.

I felt bad; a drunk kiss sufficed
to make me forget.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Letters to S. (Storylandia), Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), and Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press). His words have also appeared in various places, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Outcast Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 07/31/23

July 31, 2023 James D. Casey IV

Terminal Cases

This is the bar where beer goes
to turn flat in lines that have not
been cleaned for thirty years,
lines so thick with slime and yeast and
bacterial waste only the scum filters
through with liquids unfit for human
intake though the men who drink
here neither notice nor care.
Their eyes no longer focus,
Their mouths no longer taste,
though nothing stops them lighting up
between sips, between gobs of blood
coughed up and spit on the floor
where more than one of them
will go to die. No one asks questions
about how it has come to this or why;
this is why they are living; it’s just
what they do.

Alan Catlin has been publishing since the 70’s which makes him older than dirt as far as online publishing goes. He has adapted and has published in dozens if not hundreds of online publications and even got nominated for a Best of the Net Award. That and dozens of Pushcart nominations, Stoker Award nominations, Rhysling Nominations and etc, and two bucks will get you on the local express bus.