Bile Delicacies

Alcohol withdrawal can be pretty messy and is always uncomfortable (I claim the understatement of the year) but along with the tremors and sweat comes a beautifully gothic image. One exclusive to drunkards and the occasional pill head. A picture of sick delight; a human being going through spastic motions, behaving like a wounded animal wishing for End.
It truly is a marvellous scene if one looks beyond the clawing fingers and itching ribs, and one I have acted word for word many times; sweating out toxins, fits which make you believe you are about to plummet into death, bringing up bold blood and zany green bile, watching shadows become fiends on the walls, vices crushing kidneys, carousels stirring the mind, anxiety beating the nervous system like a sadistic elf toying with kittens, feeling murder in the guts, it never ends.
This crazy beat up pantomime and the will to go out and do it all again gets more vicious as the frame gets older. And the sick persist. Stubborn gluttons wallowing in whiskey and gin, only to try absolve their sins by fire and withdrawal.
It would be a fine method of torture, and get fantastic results, either in the drunken stage or the subsequent withdrawals but the cowering yoghurt masses would deem it too cruel. Too unusual, even if the act of drinking has become more natural than brushing ones teeth.
There is undoubtedly a dark side to alcohol, a place of utter shame and darkness where wet brained zombies wail for the clink of a bottle and werewolves lurk in anticipation of a good meal from decieving them. But there is no denying the beauty in such images, subtle bright streaks born of raw actions and emotions. In much the same way as Victorian asylums, there is always a lush pasture to be found in hell.
Withdrawal is a terrible thing to have to endure and many agonies are unveiled to the temporary crippled man or woman. Fever seems too gentle a word for it is like being visited upon by ghosts intent only on carnage of the flesh and twisting the brain, and time and again I myself have been silenced by its leather wings.
It is vile and it is also exquisite. Plentiful in horror dreamscapes like koi fish swimming in fetid swamps. Fantasy framed in realities realm. There is a daring to the chapters of suffering, a devil may care attitude which attracts the ghoulish hoardes. To some (and I exist among them like a fat gargoyle) there is charm found in sickbeds and coffins, and we grow from them, morbid stalagtites glistening with fresh luminous bile.