bEYOND tHE cUBIT*

I saw a cubit of alcoholics this afternoon, a ream or two so beyond prohibition I thought they’re heads would cave in from the weight of their wontedness. When skin gets so thin, diaphanously thin, wheat-thins thin, it’s a wonder blood doesn’t spurt from a knuckle or the end of a finger, an exsanguinations’ ex-corporeal, an iron rich covey of blood and tissue. Having been a drinker of harsh spirits and cheap wines I have an insider’s appreciate of alcoholic deterioration, one I missed by the hair of the dog, tomato juice and an egg yolk sunny side up, a mouthful of sterno and bootblack, a draught of warm Guinness and rarebit. The only bruising I have is from banging into the bedstead, feet scalloped in the rigging of my bedclothes, face shunted into the pillows.