Meaningful Existence

I drank all day and most of the night.
Bars in CT had to close around 1am.
I threw up out my window
as I drove home.
Sometimes, a thing just comes naturally.
So naturally that you don't even
have to try.
I could have driven across America,
throwing up out my window,
cursing god and his miserable creation,
13 times, I was that good at it.
There was an island about a mile
off the coast of Mystic, CT.
I think it was Fischer's Island.
It was part of New York
and in the summer,
the bar was open until 4AM.
I went on down to the docks
to find a little boat to borrow,
with an outboard pull-start motor.
I'd point the bow towards
the lights on the water.
I rarely thew up
on the way to fisher's island.
It was 1:15 or so
when I pulled up to dock.
I'd get out and walk the few hundred feet
to the entrance of the only bar
on the island.
Inside was filled with rich kids,
their parents asleep in their
Island Summer Homes,
or still in the City,
working their important jobs -
lawyers, captain's of industry,
a veterinarian.
whatever - the kids didn't know
their parents and their parents
didn't know their kids.
In a place like that,
you could get a blow-job in the toilet,
maybe finger one of them at the bar -
pretend you didn't even realize what
was going on.
the desire for authenticity
is easily exploited among the rich;
they've never been hungry,
never been thirsty -
it's easy to see how unreal
their whole existence has been.
Play with it - tell them they're ugly,
they look small, they're prude
and let their insecurities
and their character flaws
pour out into your glass
and all over your balls.

At 4am, I'd walk on down to the docks,
dizzy and alone, hoping for a tidal wave
to wash us all clean.

No tidal wave ever came -
it turns out that Long Island
was in the way of everything,
ruining all my plans
to die a meaningful death.
Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind