Raw Wounds for a Warhorse

I believe I have been blessed with good fortune, one which has enabled me to avoid confrontation and physical fights and even allows me to detect the change in moods and atmosphere. Some would say Im simply good at reading people and situations and this might well true but however one looks at it it is grand.
But the scales have occasionaly tipped into shadows as must be the case for every voyage we sail upon. No wave can bring never ending blessings, and as humans we cannot fail to be lured by vice and get caught in its sticky tentacles. Nor can we prevent having disaster visit when the seas appear calm for however great ones lucky talisman is doom will always find a way. No shelter is completely bomb proof.
During my twenties I was a ogre with an insatiable thirst for beer and sin, I left heavy footprints where ever I went, usually a pub or pill house. This was an open invite to calamity but some force or other was gentle with me. I could be carrying ugly scars from trips into what I like to call the Everworld, however it is said that fortune favours the brave. It sometimes favours the ghoul also.
One has to remember that if you flirt with danger you have to learn where the Exits are, and be sure when to use them.
I was a master at abusing myself, both mentally and physically, and I knew where to find even more horror and chaos whilst I was under the influence of my own. Its not hard to miss when one is a walking emblem for destruction. Trouble knows its kin and never misses the opportunity to shine. It is never satisfied with a pinch and always pushes the delinquent further in, attracting more and more bad vibrations.
But beneath the skull images I was also part clown and within the clown I had a heart. It anchored me to realty whilst I was being wreckless. It was my shield from total oblivion.
And having that human touch helped the cocktail be less potent, I was able to sample excess and be around dirt but there was a kind side to it. A side which didn't provoke anything. I could lie in a nest of junkie vipers and not get stung. I could walk through a bar room brawl and no punches would land on me. I was more f**ked up than anyone yet I was able to maintain my wits.
Anyone can run with the ghouls and street kids and be part of the circus but you must be careful not to become a sacrifice. Every circle of fiends needs to bare their fangs and snarl at those who remain sober in their world of paying taxes and washing cars on Sunday, and with the snarl there comes a fall. You gotta look out for it because its the weak who break.
Id walk from pub to pub, dropping in on random conversations: the job cutting back, wife screwing around, kids doing drugs, there are pretty messy lives outside the safety of the local Inn and I would run among the stories like a pigeon looking for the thorniest group. There are plenty to choose on a wet weekday when jobs are scarce and pubs thrive. Man could be broke but still find quids for beer.
Others are not so lucky in the rebel stampede. They trip up on ego and skid into the ever open arms of death, usually young, always brave beyond their means. Those lucky enough to not have their youth kill them have invaluable advice. Just a shame the dead can't hear.
I have known boys killed in bar fights, having their skulls smashed against walls and I have had friends die on the side of roads, holding their liver in their hands after testing dangerous boundaries on motorbikes. People I have drank and shared ink with have keeled over into early, cold graves from too much booze and heroin. Children believing themselves immortal and getting the big sleep for their naive ways.
Three things saved me from burning too fast in a gutter: 1. a streak of light in an otherwise dark mind, 2. respect for things more toxic than myself, and 3. pure luck. Now the third you either have it or you don't but ignore the first two at your peril because toss those aside and you become a blindman groping in a valley of flesh hungry rats and blood is everywhere.
There is safety in a tattooed mob, even honour if there's enough booze and chalk but stray too far from the bond, or try to become louder and there is hell to pay. Sharks soon turn if they feel a weak link in the chain. Of course ones biggest enemy is himself. Only so many shots of liquor or lines of speed will impress, after that its down to human mechanics. Hospitals are full of dead engines.
There's no glamour to living fast and dying young, no corpse ever looked good enough to eat. That is just a rock fable, music can make most things sound good but reality is different when the audience go home. Dying young means only missing out on more of the party and no ghoul or rebel ever seriously wants that.