“How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?”
― Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

 

On a road out of San Luis I pulled up at a bar
How far? How far?
The drinking man suffers: glug, glug, glug
The drinking man loves: glug, glug, glug
The taste of d'wish-key, the craic,
All that convivial gob-shitery quack, quack, quack.

He remembers, he truly remembers – he’s a creature of the night
Searching for the resurrection of that moment of second sight
He stumbles from place to space.
He rumbles all the lying, the two-facery 
Of all this stinking world of the powerful.
He drinks a drink or two or twenty
Never counts, just says ‘plenty’

Aligned with the rhythm of a 12-bar blues:
Booze, booze, booze.
He’s seen his way
To  social drnking, been on the  wagon too
but had to confess:
"My head's in a mess,
I love too much the sparkle of laying on a load."
So he dances in his head, much too much,
Jives with the sun, trusts to luck.
And after all the music,
And all the infirmities of the sick,
The poetry has begun,
With Dagon, father of the gods.

“Adiós," she added in Spanish, "I have no house only a shadow.
But whenever you are in need of a shadow,
My shadow is yours.”
― Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano