Drunken Angel Quotes

I had such plans for this evening. The pursuit of blind drunkenness and wayward women was my goal. But alas, it was not to be. No sooner had I consumed my third drink in the Devil than I was accosted by a delightful small flower selling child who asked me for twopence for a daisy. The price seemed steep, so I refused. When I told the girl as much, she proceeded to rob me.” “A little girl robbed you?” Tessa said. “Actually, she wasn’t a little girl at all, as it turns out, but a midget in a dress with a penchant for violence, who goes by the name of Six-Fingered Nigel.

Don't be more serious than God. God invented dog farts. God designed your body's plumbing system. God designed an ostrich. If He didn't do it, He permitted a drunken angel to do it. Empirical facts can add significantly to the meaning of "being godlike".

Jem grinned. “Where have you been? The Blue Dragon? The Mermaid?” “The Devil Tavern if you must know.” Will sighed and leaned against one of the posts of the bed. “I had such plans for the evening. The pursuit of blind drunkenness and wayward women was my goal. But alas, it was not to be. No sooner had I consumed my third drink in the Devil than I was accosted by a delightful small flower-selling child who asked me for two-pence for a daisy. The price seemed steep, so I refused. When I told the girl as much, she proceeded to rob me.” “A little girl robbed you?” Tessa said. “Actually, she wasn’t a little girl at all, as it turns out, but a midget in a dress who goes by the name of Six-Fingered Nigel.” “Easy mistake to make,” Jem said.

I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoön of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to every-body! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!

I mean, d'you know what eternity is? There's this big mountain, see, a mile high, at the end of the universe, and once every thousand years there's this little bird-" -"What little bird?" said Aziraphale suspiciously. -"This little bird I'm talking about. And every thousand years-" -"The same bird every thousand years?" -Crowley hesitated. "Yeah," he said. -"Bloody ancient bird, then." -"Okay. And every thousand years this bird flies-" -"-limps-" -"-flies all the way to this mountain and sharpens its beak-" -"Hold on. You can't do that. Between here and the end of the universe there's loads of-" The angel waved a hand expansively, if a little unsteadily. "Loads of buggerall, dear boy." -"But it gets there anyway," Crowley persevered. -"How?" -"It doesn't matter!" -"It could use a space ship," said the angel. Crowley subsided a bit. "Yeah," he said. "If you like. Anyway, this bird-" -"Only it is the end of the universe we're talking about," said Aziraphale. "So it'd have to be one of those space ships where your descendants are the ones who get out at the other end. You have to tell your descendants, you say, When you get to the Mountain, you've got to-" He hesitated. "What have they got to do?" -"Sharpen its beak on the mountain," said Crowley. "And then it flies back-" -"-in the space ship-" -"And after a thousand years it goes and does it all again," said Crowley quickly. There was a moment of drunken silence. -"Seems a lot of effort just to sharpen a beak," mused Aziraphale. -"Listen," said Crowley urgently, "the point is that when the bird has worn the mountain down to nothing, right, then-" Aziraphale opened his mouth. Crowley just knew he was going to make some point about the relative hardness of birds' beaks and granite mountains, and plunged on quickly. -"-then you still won't have finished watching The Sound of Music." Aziraphale froze. -"And you'll enjoy it," Crowley said relentlessly. "You really will." -"My dear boy-" -"You won't have a choice." -"Listen-" -"Heaven has no taste." -"Now-" -"And not one single sushi restaurant." A look of pain crossed the angel's suddenly very serious face.

...and she's thinking of rage, like an ember or a burning acid swallowing up her knotted viscera. Blindness like the kind that leads men to perpetrate horrors, animal drunkenness, the jungles of the mind.

I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!

Ah, mistress, you’re an angel. Sure there’s not a drop left? I might have remembered one more person….” “Up yours,” I said rudely with another belch. “It’s empty. You should tell me the name anyway, after making me drink all that sewage.” Winston gave me a devious smile. “Come back with a full bottle and I will.” “Selfish spook,” I mumbled, and staggered away. I’d made it a few feet when I felt that distinct pins-and-needles sensation again, only this time it wasn’t in my throat. “Hey!” I looked down in time to see Winston’s grinning, transparent form fly out of my pants. He was chuckling even as I smacked at myself and hopped up and down furiously. “Drunken filthy pig!” I spat. “Bastard!” “And a good eve’in’ to you, too, mistress!” he called out, his edges starting to blur and fade. “Come back soon!” “I hope worms shit on your corpse!” was my reply. A ghost had just gotten to third base with me. Could I sink any lower?

I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man.

One of the worst incidents of that era caused no complaints at all: this was a sort of good-natured firepower demonstration, which occured one Sunday morning about three-thirty. For reasons that were never made clear, I blew out my back windows with five blasts of a 12 gauge shotgun, followed moments later by six rounds from a .44 Magnum. It was a prolonged outburst of heavy firing, drunken laughter, and crashing glass. Yet the neighbors reacted with total silence. For a while I assumed that some freakish wind pocket had absorbed all the noise and carried it out to sea, but after my eviction I learned otherwise. Every one of the shots had been duly recorded on the gossip log. Another tenant in the building told me the landlord was convinced, by all the tales he'd heard, that the interior of my apartment was reduced to rubble by orgies, brawls, fires, and wanton shooting. He had even heard stories about motorcycles being driven in and out the front door.

The van stank of cabbage and cornered like a drunken elephant. It would do.

Granting that there is some truth to the theory that defects in society give rise to the emergence of criminals, I still maintain that those who use this theory as a defense of criminality are overlooking the fact that there are many people in this defective society who survive without resorting to crime. The argument to the contrary is pure sophistry.

It may seem strange, perhaps even socially archaic, but I strongly believe that people ought to reach out to each other in this way, neighbor to neighbor, stranger to stranger, because our failure to do so has warped the social fabric into one of conjoined loneliness and all its attached sufferings.

Anytime you find another alcoholic standing in front of you,” he had said, “looking you in the eye and talking about sobriety, consider that God is there, speaking through him or her to you. Or anytime you’re sitting in a meeting, consider that God is there. For now, think of God as an acronym for ‘Group of Drunks.

A Black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels, Someday I shall tell of your mysterious births: A, black velvety corset of dazzling flies Buzzing around cruel smells, Gulfs of shadow; E, white innocence of vapors and of tents, Spears of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of Queen Anne's lace; I, purples, spitting blood, smile of beautiful lips In anger or in drunken penitence; U, waves, divine shudderings of green seas, The calm of pastures dotted with animals, the peace of furrows Which alchemy prints on wide, studious foreheads; O, sublime Bugle full of strange piercing sound, Silences crossed by Worlds and by Angels; - O the Omega, the violet ray of her Eyes!

I was born to be a warrior, and I was born to be with her. Tell me how to reconcile the two, because I cannot!" Magnus made no answer. He was looking at Edmund and remembering when he had drunkenly thought of the Shadowhunter as a lovely ship, that might sail straight out to sea or wreck itself upon the rocks. He could see the rocks now, dark and jagged on the horizon. He saw Edmund's future without Shadowhunting, how he would yearn for the danger and the risk. How he would find it at the gaming tables. How fragile he would always be once his sense of purpose was gone. And then there was Linette, who had fallen in love with a golden Shadowhunter, an avenging angel. What would she think of him when he was just another Welsh farmer, all his glory stripped away? Yet love was not something to be thrown aside lightly. It came so rarely, only a few times in a mortal life. Sometimes it came but once. Magnus could not say Edmund Herondale was wrong to seize love when he had found it. He could think Nephilim Law was wrong for making him choose.

We are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because the frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken farce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the tremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.

The mass of men have been forced to be gay about the little things, but sad about the big ones. Nevertheless (I offer my last dogma defiantly) it is not native to man to be so. Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the uproarious labour by which all things live. Yet, according to the apparent estate of man as seen by the pagan or the agnostic, this primary need of human nature can never be fulfilled. Joy ought to be expansive; but for the agnostic it must be contracted, it must cling to one comer of the world. Grief ought to be a concentration; but for the agnostic its desolation is spread through an unthinkable eternity. This is what I call being born upside down. The sceptic may truly be said to be topsy-turvy; for his feet are dancing upwards in idle ecstacies, while his brain is in the abyss. To the modern man the heavens are actually below the earth. The explanation is simple; he is standing on his head; which is a very weak pedestal to stand on. But when he has found his feet again he knows it. Christianity satisfies suddenly and perfectly man's ancestral instinct for being the right way up; satisfies it supremely in this; that by its creed joy becomes something gigantic and sadness something special and small. The vault above us is not deaf because the universe is an idiot; the silence is not the heartless silence of an endless and aimless world. Rather the silence around us is a small and pitiful stillness like the prompt stillness in a sick-room. We are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because the frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken farce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the tremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.

It took me several minutes to persuade myself to watch the news. During which time I gave myself a stern talking to. That turned into me considering a local pub that would be the perfect place to drown my sorrows in a barrel of tequila, though after much introspection, I scratched the idea just to avoid needless drunken embarrassment. Then, admittedly, I contemplated pouncing Andrew for another steamy romp session. Despite its proven potency to assuage stress and tension, I decided now was not the time to indulge in explosive sexcapades.

Yesterday – sensible, clear-headed, right-thinking – I decided I must accept that my part in this story was over. But my better angels lost again, defeated by drink, by the person I am when I drink. Drunk Rachel sees no consequences, she is either excessively expansive and optimistic or wrapped up in hate.

His feeling for the South was not so much historic as it was of the core and desire of dark romanticism--that unlimited and inexplicable drunkenness, the magnetism of some men's blood that takes them into the heart of the heat, and beyond that, into the polar and emerald cold of the South as swiftly as it took the heart of that incomparable romanticist who wrote The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, beyond which there is nothing. And this desire of his was unquestionably enhanced by all he had read and visioned, by the romantic halo that his school history cast over the section, by the whole fantastic distortion of that period where people were said to live in "mansions," and slavery was a benevolent institution, conducted to a constant banjo-strumming, the strewn largesses of the colonel and the shuffle-dance of his happy dependents, where all women were pure, gentle, and beautiful, all men chivalrous and brave, and the Rebel horde a company of swagger, death-mocking cavaliers. Years later, when he could no longer think of the barren spiritual wilderness, the hostile and murderous intrenchment against all new life--when their cheap mythology, their legend of the charm of their manner, the aristocratic culture of their lives, the quaint sweetness of their drawl, made him writhe--when he could think of no return to their life and its swarming superstition without weariness and horror, so great was his fear of the legend, his fear of their antagonism, that he still pretended the most fanatic devotion to them, excusing his Northern residence on grounds of necessity rather than desire.

Angels’ Share: In storage, a small amount of alcohol escapes the barrel through evaporation. Distillers call this lost alcohol the angels’ share. Whiskey and brandy makers estimate that the angels get about 2 percent of the alcohol in a barrel each year, although that can vary depending on humidity and temperature. Fortunately, they can afford to lose some, as most spirits are aged at a higher proof than the final bottling.

McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed There's a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head There's devils on each side of you with bottles in their hands You need one more drop of poison and you'll dream of foreign lands When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone Frank Ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the Devil's in the chair And in the Euston tavern you screamed it was your shout But they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the Devil's in the chair You remember that foul evening when you heard the banshees howl There was lousy drunken bastards singing Billy in the Bowl They took you up to midnight mass and left you in the lurch So you dropped a button in the plate and spewed up in the church Now you'll sing a song of liberty for blacks and Paks and Jocks And they'll take you from this dump you're in and stick you in a box Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground But you'll stick your head back out and shout "We'll have another round" At the gravesite of Cuchulainn we'll kneel around and pray And God is in his heaven, and Billy's down by the bay "The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn

- Surly clouds blacken to make fire rims at that forge where night’s being hammered, crazed mountains march to the sunset like drunken cavaliers in Messina when Ursula was fair, I would swear that Hozomeen would move if we could induce him but he spends the night with me and soon when stars rain down the snowfields he’ll be in the pink of pride all black and yaw-y to the north where (just above him every night) North Star flashes pastel orange, pastel green, iron orange, iron blue, azurite indicative constellative auguries of her makeup there that you could weigh on the scales of the golden world - The wind, the wind -

By the word materialism, the philistine understands gluttony, drunkenness, lust of the eye, lust of the flesh, arrogance, cupidity, avarice, covetousness, profit-hunting, and stock-exchange swindling — in short, all the filthy vices in which he himself indulges in private. By the word idealism he understands the belief in virtue, universal philanthropy, and in a general way a “better world”, of which he boasts before others but in which he himself at the utmost believes only so long as he is having the blues or is going through the bankruptcy consequent upon his customary “materialist” excesses. It is then that he sings his favorite song, What is man? — Half beast, half angel.

Once upon a time I'd left Los Angeles and been swallowed down the throat of a life in which my sole loyalty was to my tongue. My belly. Myself. My mother called me selfish and so selfish I became. From nineteen to twenty-five I was a mouth, sating. For myself I made three-day braises and chose the most marbled meats, I played loose with butter and cream. My arteries were young, my life pooling before me, and I lapped, luxurious, from it. I drank, smoked, flew cheap red-eyes around Europe, I lived in thrilling shitholes, I found pills that made nights pass in a blink or expanded time to a soap bubble, floating, luminous, warm. Time seemed infinite, then. I begged famous chefs for the chance to learn from them. I entered competitions and placed in a few. I volunteered to work brunch, turn artichokes, clean the grease trap. I flung my body at all of it: the smoke and singe of the grill station, a duck's breast split open like a geode, two hundred oysters shucked in the walk-in, sex in the walk-in, drunken rides around Paris on a rickety motorcycle and no helmet, a white truffle I stole and shaved in secret over a bowl of Kraft mac n' cheese for me, just me, as my body strummed the high taut selfish song of youth. On my twenty-fifth birthday I served black-market fugu to my guests, the neurotoxin stinging sweetly on my lips as I waited to see if I would, by eating, die. At that age I believed I knew what death was: a thrill, like brushing by a friend who might become a lover.

I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoön of himself with his stockings. "I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world. Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!

Little Brother, what did I tell you to do when problems occur?” My mind raced. Couldn’t think of what it could be. “I don’t remember!” I snapped. And then I did. “Oh, yeah. You said when it gets hard, go to a meeting and things will get better.” “That’s right.” “But how will going to a meeting help with this?” “Little Brother, all we ask in recovery is that you keep an open mind and try what we suggest. So, here’s my suggestion: go to a meeting and see whether or not things get better.

Anger is just one example used here of how this happens, but is it the only thing that could allow a demon entry? Anger (or wrath) is mentioned as a “work of the flesh”, and it seems likely that any work of the flesh, in which sin takes place, or is held on to over time, may also give room to a demon. Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are [these]; Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, Idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like: of the which I tell you before, as I have also told [you] in time past, that they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God. Gal 5:19-21

Words. Empty words. Sometimes I hate words. Sometimes they fail human experience. Sometimes words are a way to avoid the truth.

In many respects, recovery was, by nature, iconoclastic—a smashing of old and rigid ideas to allow for new life-giving perspectives.

God didn’t get you sober to fuck you over.

It’s not your job to decide whether people should think you’re important or not, hey? Huh? What others think of us is none of our business. Maybe you’re more important than you give yourself credit for. This could be God’s way of showing you something you should know but don’t.

The more sober you get, the more clearly you feel,

The world is divided into normal people and us drunks. And you’re a drunk like me. You have a mental obsession combined with an allergy of the body. You’re allergic to alcohol and obsessed with it at the same time. The combination is fatal and unstoppable. Once booze hits your system, the jig’s up: you must drink. It’s not the normal drinkers who end up in the park, it’s not them who die in the gutter. It’s us, with a condition that is recognized by the American Medical Association as incurable, and Alan, it’s killing you.

A recovery old-timer had told me: “Time takes time. Don’t be in any rush to get this thing. Let it filter in slow. What’s the hurry?

The Harlot Church, Mystery Babylon the Great and the Cup of Abominations in Revelation 17: The Bible says an apostate theocracy with a political, economic, military, and religious component will rise. John begins to describe the spiritual foundation of this global system in the Book of Revelation, stating: And there came one of the seven angels, which had the seven vials and talked with me, saying to me, ‘Come, I will show you the judgment of the great whore that sits on many waters: With whom the kings of the earth committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication.’ So, he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit on a scarlet-colored beast which was full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. The woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication: and on her forehead, was a name written, MYSTERY BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH. I saw the woman, drunken with the blood of the saints and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration. And the angel said to me, ‘Why did you marvel? I will tell you the mystery of the woman and the beast that carries her, which has the seven heads and the ten horns’ (17:1-7, AKJV).

All of the things she and he never got to do together, all of the things he never knew he wanted to do with her, like have her kiss him while wearing a fake mustache made from a dead owl’s feather, all of those lost things manifest and centralize in his chest with a nauseating hardness. And what hurts Hank Williams most is the undeniable permanence to the hardness. One that tells him it’s not planning on leaving. And that, in time, he may forget her in small, subtle ways, like how beautiful she looked whenever she yawned, or like when he’d stand outside the bathroom and listen to her pee and how beautiful the sound of her peeing was to him – like a drunken angel playing a wet harp – but that, ultimately, he’ll never forget what he lost when he lost her. That he’ll always feel the severity and complete waste of it all, therefore preventing him any real chance of happiness. That he’ll only be allowed brief moments of cheap peace sporadically permitted to him for the rest of his life. So he might as well get used to it, this nauseating hardness. Because it’s not going anywhere. Ever.

The way the girls used the word, "chueca" stood for bent lives, bent minds -- not the narrow, straight existence that girls were expected to have. Not these girls -- abused by drunken fathers, humiliated by scornful mothers, beaten by raging brothers. They were pushed into all kinds of shape by forces stronger than their innocence could withstand. They also felt harder than most girls, survivors, who took the worst beatings, sexual assaults, putdowns, and were still able to stand up without tears and declare, "You ain't changed me." Their hearts were bent, but not broken.

THESSALONIANS 4:13-5:10 AND THE GOSPEL SAYINGS OF JESUS Christ returns 1 Thess 4:16 Matt 24:30; Mark 13:26; Luke 21:27 descends from heaven 1 Thess 4:16 Matt 24:30; Mark 13:26; Luke 21:27 a commanding shout 1 Thess 4:16 John 5:28-29 accompanied by angels 1 Thess 4:16 (an archangel) Matt 24:31; Mark 13:27 with a trumpet call 1 Thess 4:16 Matt 24:31 the Christians who have died will rise 1 Thess 4:16 John 11:25-26 believers gathered to Christ 1 Thess 4:17 Matt 24:31; Mark 13:27 caught up in the clouds 1 Thess 4:17 Mark 13:26 (= Matt 24:40-41; Luke 21:34-35—one taken, another left) to meet the Lord 1 Thess 4:17 Matt 25:6 be with the Lord forever 1 Thess 4:17; 5:10 John 17:24 (cf. Phil 1:23) time unknown 1 Thess 5:1-2 Matt 24:36; Mark 13:32 coming like a thief 1 Thess 5:1-2 Matt 24:43 the Parousia will be sudden 1 Thess 5:3 Matt 24:37-39; Luke 21:34 judgment comes as labor pains 1 Thess 5:3 Matt 24:8; Mark 13:8 believers should be watchful and on guard 1 Thess 5:4-6 Matt 24:42-44; Mark 13:35-37; Luke 21:34-36 warning against drunkenness 1 Thess 5:7 Matt 24:48-50; Luke 21:34 live in the light 1 Thess 5:8 John 8:12; 12:35-36 chosen for salvation, not for God’s wrath 1 Thess 5:9 Matt 24:13; Mark 13:13

Bloodthirsty — Lucifer had never heard a word like this; he picked it apart literally, thinking of filling a wine glass with blood and sipping. Would it drunken him, too?

Real America, in honor of the hellhound, our beloved Bukowski You hate America, no, not at all, I love it so much that I can say obvious truths that they themselves do not want to accept. If I criticize myself all the time, why would I stop criticizing others? A poem in honor of the only sincere American, Bukowski. The myth of America tells us of the land of freedom, founded by descendants of intelligent and puritanical Europeans. It's all a load of crap, no, it's the land of slavery, my friends, not just in the sense of slavery of African descendants, but of mental slavery. Yes, the land of the alienated. Eden, created by Angels. This is all a load of crap. Real America, Real America, Strong America, came from the indigenous tribes, from the toil of blacks and the industrious mentality of descendants of Europeans, all lazy, violent and who wanted to get fat like pigs, without worrying about anything. Dirty America that produces clean America, sold in the movies. Why lazy? Well, they don't like to make a lot of effort, and this indolence produces innovation. Is that why they are so creative? Well, they are creative in order to pay well the brains of other nations who go to work there. They knew that numerous wars and constant friction were much worse than anything else and cost money. So? Well, then, let's create a land where everyone can get fat, rich and kill each other, but only as long as the general profit of society increases. Let's sell the excess food, weapons and our gourmet culture to other peoples. It worked. But let's not fool ourselves. America is Golden on the outside and dark on the inside. America is the country of weapons, drugs, fantasies and lies. Above all, lies. See, the mafias that operated there to supply the demand for alcohol, prohibited in order to maintain the pure "spirit" of the drunken bourgeoisie, were all called mafias of other nationalities. But they were all Americans. America is geography, not history or ethnicity. You are an American because of your ties to this immense land blessed by God. Is that what these bastards have done? They have turned their own pain into art and sold it to us in the movies. The weapons, yes, they have to be good and they have to kill quickly. Why? Because Americans are lazy and don't like anything that lasts long. Even wars have to be fought in other countries and if they are too exhausting, they lose their Hollywood shine, so we have to abandon Saigon. Fatness, that is another thing that best represents America. Americans are all obese. Well, at least you can't help but notice them. They are, well, heavy people, especially the Karens. I love Karens, I'm a male Karen, you know. And as for drugs, well, that's the most interesting part. It's the country that consumes them the most, why? Well, maintaining the American dream requires a lot of mescaline. Fat drug addicts with guns sticking out of their own toilets. The toilets in America must hide everything we really want to know. I will probably never get a visa there, thanks to this poem. Still, you can't deny that my writing is anthological. God bless all the Americas. Please don't blow me up, I have poetic license to write these words.

when we passed the Hells Angels clubhouse they were giving cans of beer out to little kids. “Repeat after me,” ordered a drunken Hells Angel dressed as a Viking warrior. “When I grow up I’m going to be a badass.

June 7: Norma Jeane leaves the Los Angeles Orphans Home to live with Grace and her husband, Doc Goddard, at 6707 Odessa Avenue in Van Nuys. Norma Jeane hears on the radio that Jean Harlow has died. A drunken Doc Goddard evidently tries to fondle Norma Jeane, who complains to Grace about the abuse. September

You are buried beneath your own celebrity gossip! Buried beneath tweets about how awful it is that drunken Republican Congresspersons from the South hold opinions you don’t like! You are a city and a nation of bullies and you are very selective in your targets! Maybe it’s not the fault of the people who use these elaborate mechanisms of the Internet! Maybe it’s the fault of the people who engineered these systems to prey on the worst instincts of the human race because preying on the worst instincts of people is a much better way to generate advertising revenue than appeals to the angels of our better nature!

He chanced one last touch of his mouth to hers then drew away. She was flushed and her lips were red and moist. Her glowing beauty made his heart stumble. A man with one ounce of principle would send her on her way with Roberta's vowels safely folded in her reticule. If Sidonie stayed, Jonas would tarnish her shining goodness. He'd drag his angel down to share his hell. "Oh, my," she whispered, staring up with eyes more gold than brown. "Oh, my, indeed." He smiled, he feared, with drunken joy rather than the cynical amusement with which he usually confronted the world.

an encyclopedic prose-poem chanted by drunken angels in Hell.

Man bears within himself a witness of all his faults, which he must acknowledge with sorrow either here or before God's judgment seat, for as the sage says, ‘our conscience knows we have said and even done what harmed others,[1135] and knows it, not in order to conceal it, but to bear witness against us. Yet with all this, there are men who stop God's voice and stifle the remonstrance of conscience, not permitting it to speak; or rather, treat it with such contempt that it is hoarse with shouting. They listen to it no more than if they were mill-stones, and live in perfect peace and repose. Not that their understanding is at rest or ceases to keep alight the spark that burns their conscience when they err, but they keep it submerged, sunk deep in the well of evil customs. There they hide the light and cover it by adding sin after sin with an easy heart. Concerning such men Holy Scripture says that some who are wicked, feel as secure as though they had followed justice.   This is a wrongful peace of the perverse, who not through ignorance, but through malice, will not face their evil state. [1136] When conscience reproves them, they force it to rebound as the hard ground makes a ball bounce back, without listening to a word it says. Such men lose their reason as though they were drunk; they hearken neither to God, to their conscience, their good angel, a preacher, nor a wise counselor. They say: “I shall have peace, and will walk on in the injustice of my heart: and the drunken may consume the thirsty.” [1137]   In

Love is a moral drunkenness; and, whilst it lasts, the shrew seems gentle, the tigress a dove, the flirt constant, and the fiend an angel.” Charles William Day

There we were that night breaking up in the snow. A still shot of drunken rage looking down on gentle beauty. Well, I went a little wacko, which used to happen a lot back then, and I started a fight with him. I don't know why. I remember looking at the top of his head and thinking look, it's an angel, and my very next thought was, spit on his head.