The Grog

                What’s the Problem?

I don’t have a drinking problem;

I have a sobriety problem.

I drink more than medical science recommends, but:

I can afford the grog I buy;

I don’t drink when I have work to do;

I don’t drink and drive;

and I don’t drink when I have responsibilities to others;

so, where’s the problem?

If I don’t have work to do,

have nowhere to drive,

have nothing constructive to accomplish

at my desk or around the house,

have no responsibilities to others –

and I’m stone-cold sober,

demons and trauma from my past

assail me and cause me more pain

than I choose to endure.

I don’t have a drinking problem;

I have a sobriety problem.

             The Grog

I’m not an alkie,

which isn’t pathetic denial,

because I can nurse

a single beer

for hours at social occasions

from which I have to drive

or otherwise stay alert,

and I’m not big on drinking heaps of beer

to get pissed, anyway.

It gives me gas.

I’m not much of a social drinker, anyway.

I do appreciate, though,

the oblivion

to which alcohol conducts me rapidly

away from my constant

everyday misery

when I’m alone,

my access to effective opiates

being nil.

          Veritas

I have a low opinion

of my species in general,

but I certainly admire

those of its members

who figured out how

to make wine.

                        Plonk Fanciness

It’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure

of savouring excellent wine,

and even though the wine I enjoyed the most ever,

thirty-eight years ago,

was a white from in the Mâconnais subregion of Burgundy

called Pouilly Fuissé,

for about a decade now I’ve drunk only reds,

as cheap red wine tends  to be

more drinkable than the cheap white.

I always buy the cheapest red table wine

that Pak’n Save or New World has on sale,

usually from Australia,

and derive sour amusement

from the wine-snob rubbish on their labels.

“Full of smooth plum and black fruit flavours,” or

“bursting with blackcurrant flavours and a touch of subtle spice,” indeed!

Who d’yuh think yer impressin’ with that shite, maite?

Wine snobs advise letting fine red wines breathe for a while

between being opened and being enjoyed.

I give that cheap Aussie plonk

immediate mouth-to-mouth.

    Whisky As A Form Of Preparation

I saw,

lying on the grass verge

as I walked by with my garlic bread and veggies,

a dead cat

stretched out with seeming languidness,

covered with grey stripes,

staring eyes still almost clear.

It made me think

about impact with a motor vehicle,

and what it would be like.

I imagined a split second of pain and surprise,

followed by a blackout

similar to after that last gulp of whisky too many.

Less than two minutes later,

as I trudged, still mulling this over,

across Boundary Road by the roundabout,

a car came whipping around the circle

faster than it should have

and had to brake

in order to miss me by millimetres.

Looks like I’ll have to wait a bit longer to find out.

        Or Maybe It Was?

I thought,

as I emptied the second bottle of wine

that afternoon down my throat,

that something was amiss

and needed my attention.

But then, tomorrow would do

if it was important enough to remember,

which it wasn’t.

       Tequila Association

Shortly after

the termination

of a particularly unsatisfactory

domestic relationship

I attended a large bash

with hundreds of people present

put on by the

San Antonio Tequila Association.

When I got home –

I don’t know how –

I was unable to take an analgesic

for my roaring head

because my stomach refused

to accept even water.

It was as if it were telling me,

“Unh-unh! I don’t trust you

after what you just did to me!”

I was ill for several days.

I suppose that if I were

genetically weaker

and hadn’t been a gym junkie

I would have died.

Decades later

I still experience

an involuntary gag reflex

when just smelling tequila

from across the room.

So no, thank you,

I think I’ll pass on your offer

to shout me a margarita.

              Seizing An Opportunity

The morning after a verse performance

and drinking with Martin afterwards,

I did what is for me the equivalent of sleeping in

and didn’t get out of bed until at least six.

It was a chilly morning – just above freezing –

and I was delighted to find

a more-than-negligible amount

of whisky

left over in my small whisky glass on the desk in my office.

I downed it.

My belly, and indeed all of me,

felt immediately much warmer,

and continued to feel so as my office convection heater

brought the room’s air up to a reasonable temperature.

Sculling that shot had been a good call –

coffee could come later.

       Paean To My Support Person

You’ve been there for me

when loneliness has brought me pain.

You’ve been there for me

when overwork has stressed me

far beyond what I can tolerate.

You’ve been there for me

when misery and despair

have overwhelmed me.

You’ve been there for me

when I’ve been so physically, mentally, emotionally,

and spiritually exhausted

that my hands have shaken and cramped.

You’ve been there for me

when the arse-holes out there

have left me furious and frustrated

and convinced I’m a member of a fucked-up species.

You’ve been there for me

when I’ve had to absorb into my own soul

the pain of those I love.

You’ve been there for me

when others have shot me down,

let me down, put me down,

ignored, and abandoned me.

You’ve been there for me

when I’ve held myself

in low esteem for stuffing up.

You’ve been there for me,

and I’m grateful for it,

whisky –

you’ve been wonderful in support,

and I love you for it.

                                {As Performed Live by the New Millennium Beatniks}