Gunna get my kicks
before the whole shit house
goes up in flames
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About Me
- Dale Hunt
- He's become comfortable in that ol' civil war jacket. What would compliment that mess of hair? A sage cigarette, a bottle in his hand and a book in his pocket. A hobo at heart a drunk by night and a rambling pain. Tired and old before his time. Studying the greats Bukowski, Tom Waits William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson, Kerouac and John Steinbeck. Drinking Brandy and Cockspur rum from the bottle. Hiding down South for the winter months running from the cold and consequence.
2 comments:
Cheers jd
Bishop was getting old. He’d slipped on the ice and twisted his knee. It was another pain, that could never hold a candle to the pain in his teeth, especially in winter.
Jack let him know the whole whores in the dugout plan had gone south. He said something about disfigured mannequins and little bottles of vodka.
It wasn’t long before they were talking about bridge bottoms, railway tracks, cattails, day light savings, the difference between diving and falling, frozen rivers, beer in the bottle opposed to the tin, fir bark fires, red wine and white wine, plaid versus old army, cancer, breast man or ass man (do you even have to ask), how it used to be, the moon, the sun, how cold it was last year, if the fish were biting, flat bottom boats, canoes, red wing black birds, pelicans, eagles and griebs.
They discussed it over; whiskey, tequila, bloody marries, rum, scotch, brandy, red wine, sherry, liqueurs (of many flavours) and a few tall leggy ones.
They never agreed. One wished the other would come along. The other wished the other would stay.
And that was the way it was between those two.
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