War Stories #19

god knows what georgy was doing on top
of absinthe that night. all jacked up he got
it in his head that he was a turnip
or some such shit, and took a wire brush to
himself. billy told him a paring knife
might work better, and then we all watched dazed
and mortified while georgy started cutting
chunks out of his own torso with a dull
hunk of steel from the kitchen. back then,
roxanne, a trauma nurse, was hanging out
with us and helping find us fixes—she
clocked him with the absinthe bottle, strapped him
down and stitched him up with fishing line well
enough to keep us from repercussions.

David M Pitchford
23 Oct 2011

3 thoughts on “War Stories #19

    • this is part of a series I have of confessional poems based on war stories from the life of a multi-addicted alcoholic as they might be told in 12-step meetings. I’m still trying to decide whether to augment them with recovery-based poems to match and balance it out. I think I have around forty or so at this point.

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