I remember it oh so well, the time I had to be pumped
No, not like that!
No doctors, no nurses, no such equipment, just me, John McSweeney and the poor fella’s fingers
A bottle of whiskey will do that, leave you stumbling, fumbling about the place devoid of breath
A fairly honest admittance on my part, but isn’t that the way it should be when it comes to any kind of art, speak of everything and anything that comes to mind, be it something as far from kind on my ego as this
He came to a most unlikely rescue, one that I only got to see through a slew of words
Absurd but he threw his fingers down my throat, tickled my tonsils, waiting on my stomach to explode
Explode it did
Later that night, it was just me – ashen-faced to the last – and that grimy toilet lid