i can see your aura

It was a beautiful happy moment (sic)

of drunken debauchery 

A deep sea diver called Bill,

a drunken punkette whose name was "drunken punkette" 

Some kinda poet to be honest yours truly 

And a dippy hippy girl called Shelley 

Who could see your aura - couldn't she Debbie? 

One Norwich night when the mental nurse snored 

Thru waves of rude lugubrious foolish licentious abandonment

We swam like dogs and blithely rampant

Took our masks off for a moment

Like an onion leaving a layer

Of happy crying drug busted tears

As gloppy as a lick of the old man's Lolly pop

As soppy as the drip of our degradation and folly (drip drop)

The hippy went down with the deep sea diver

While I got to have sex with the little punkette

She sat on top and fucked me sideways all the while she smoked her cigarette through thick and wet until we crashed at the end like warm leatherette 

Then I went home to the love of my life

The one who I'd asked to be my wife

She said hello but where's your boots? 

I knew of course but withheld the truth

Our love didn't last many more drunks

More prison shirts and a consolation kitten

Many more hurts than joy division

The punkette 'n' I met the very next day

We laughed and we went our merry old way

Then I saw Shelley when she was a broken hippy

(it was quite a bit later when things weren't great)

I was having vodka and orange as my continental breakfast when your aura Shelley poltergeisted on telly and a highly significant thought came upon me  

As underwater and impenetrable as an oil rig in the Persian gulf

being mud slung with missiles

(So Bill the diver wrote me later keeping me abreast in voluble expositions chronicling his underwater observations of happenings in his world events)

Which interested me little to be honest

Since I was working hard on my thesis of how to become a vapid alcoholic

A zero sum vexatious puddle of wonderloaf and rum 

The very low life of a very small sum but i digress 

This time was very very silly and very very sick and not very funny 

Suicide to the left of me the devil in my soup 

I gag and I abhor it but I gotta tell the truth 

There was me and there was Shelley I was on the sofa 

She was on the Telly baring her soul but not her breasts

like the beautiful happy moment (sic)

Telling tales of her drunken debauchery 

And how she was a victim of her own behest

I was drinking vodka

And crying like a drake

That's when the devil's gotcha like a poisson on his plate 

Don't forget to wriggle 

As he pricks you with his prodder

No excuse you're done mate 

You've nothing left to offer

The hippy on TV is purple green and bust

She's been raped abused 

Abjurant of contemptible disgust, a servant of corpulent lust and like an onion skin discarded left to turn to brittle dust like me just crying into my vodka just lying and dying on the sofa being mocked by ghosts of pleasure drinking while the pylons hummed sinking to the depths I plumbed them like a breakfast down the toilet and the universe abashed tried to kick me in the nads and wake me up for fuck sakes Before I ran out of luck and it got too late like it seemed it did for Shelley I think when you die

Of rape or alcoholism

Those left behind can see your aura

Gone to the other side of the Television. 

It was a beautiful happy moment of drunken debauchery 

A deep sea diver a drunken punkette 

Some kinda poet 

And a trippy dippy hippy 

Who could see your purple aura like a soul dead deep sea diver

And the ghosts on some soap opera

With their parts laid bare

And a limp cigarette dripping on their breasts.

07/09/17