Oooh you're a naughty mess

f'n' good tho' only 'cause i'm back on the booze train/ down to 15mls methadone tho' alcoholism, at least in moi, invariably steps in to assuage the sickness/ a scarred liver and an identity partially based on alcohol and opiate abuse: i suppose its better than being proud to be, e.g., part of a politician's entourage/ id est, there are certainly worse ways to define one's self, and without definition, face the void (you will loose)/ woman a la doc.s, i attempting to write an article on the joys of budapest/ i'm not sure what to report as my visit was little more an orgy of absinthe and whores/ i also had to avoid detection by my parents and father's colleagues/ i'd managed this successfully until my mother, as i quickened my step to get some duty free on the return (absinthe, GBP 0.75/btl), shouted, 'w-, why on earth are you walking like that?'/ a cpl of pa's associates smirked knowingly/ ho-hum, dum-de-dum/ any-fuck...hand healing well, in spite of my heavy drinking through a course of anti-biotic/ dog fine, stereo sublime, several smiths and tricky albums speeding their way to me by post, oh and some hendrix, cohen and talking heads/ do not over analyse your sicknesses or you will compound them (hence the ultimate failure of freudian analysis - just knowing why you feel shit doesn't stop you feeling shit and might make you feel shit-er)/ bye...