Part 1 (title???)

Its an oldy guys I know, let me have it.........

Part 1

Galway has been everything to me, a place to drink, a place to sleep on others couches, a place to get in trouble with the law. i will never forget those magnificent sunsets by the Spanish arch, keeping myself warm with the body of a not long dead hobo, drinking what appeared to be the liquor that had finally burst his swollen and blackened liver. his body was getting colder, noticeably so, but the constant flow of urine easing its way out of his now unconstricted bowels was enough to stave off the cold for at least a few hours. then id simply wander the streets, fighting some crime, commiting some crimes and the universe was balanced again. all was right with the world as the alcohol soaked city, still reeking from last nights take away and speckled lightly with rizzla papers bagan to wake up.
theres nothing quite like it, you trudge determinedly through shop street, stopping to harrass some small children on there way to school, hepling yourself to the unguarded contents of the early morning delivery vans. a quick fumble in your pockets and not only have you aroused the local preverts but found enough loose change to procure some precious tobacco. aaahhh tobacco, if it twernt for all those greedy englishmen, those rapists of the high seas i could never feel your sweet caress on my lips at seven in the morning. the first light at first light, the first draw, that crackle of rocket fuel and arsenic. the warm nurturing smoke flowing gently down your throat tickling you, awakening your senses. and then the sexual rush of the smoke pushing back through your lips, like your cheeky toungue at your first stolen french kiss. my clothes are wet, and they smell of last night and the great outdoors of galway, the murky water stagnating in the canals, the condoms discarded by the whoremongering sailors floating at the docks.
i am dirty and im sobering up.
i trundle on, avoiding the cars on a street normally pedestrianised, these guys own the fuckin place this time of the mornin, and they let you know it. i step in front of a big fuck off truck with my hand facing outwards. the trucker blows his own horn, must have gotten that rib operation i suggest to noone in particular. i need somewhere to sit for a while so i do a full circle, from shop street down towards augustine and then back through flood to the spanish arch. i always like to shake it up, in the country side you can never tell one field from another, one hedgrow from the next. here it becomes so familiar, so much like home that often i concider demanding cups of coffee from the inhabitants of each building with a fuck you this is my home sign hung prominently and ever so suggestively around my neck. no benches as such so i sit on those fucking stone things, they are wet perpetually and surrounded by empty bottles of linden village, four of them mine. what they dont know though, is that i have a fuckin secret weapon, not a secret weapon i use for fucking as such but many have been overheard commenting on there amazing performance afterwards, all men. sex for them is always good, half those assholes could be blindfolded and fuck each other all night.
anyway yeah, i have buckfast. what a build up, i know you guessed already cos its so cliche right now, oh dear god thay shall scoff, huh, buckfast. my my thats original thay shall say, guffawing all the while, then i shall crack them on the side of their upturned noses and have a little chortle of mine own. whoever they are.
anyway yeah, im saving it for after breakfast. at this stage i realise my cigarrette has burned out and cursing myself i light another, more thoughtfully this time and smoke like a philosopher, beard stroking like a pro. anyone passing now could mistake me for a poet, a wise soul so enraptured by the dawn and the beauty of the waters edge that i sit in silence, breathing it in and crying for some long lost love, some wench that died at sea. perhaps a mermaid i saw once on the disney channel and thought of ripping her shells off. never know these days. most guys would wank over cadavers if they thought theyd get away with it, damn communists, stealin our women. anyway where was i, oh yeah. so i smoke for a while and this old guy comes over to feed the ducks or whatever. he does it every mornin around this time. ive watched him. sometimes up close sometimes from afar, but ive been watchin. eyin up that fuck off bag of bread hes holdin. the guy must have one of those wives that bakes incessantly because she hasnt had sex in thirty years judgin by the amount of bread hes got in that bag.
so i saunter up to him, "how are you this fine morning sir" i offer, he must be a mute or smell the dead guy off me cause hes not answerin. "bread is it?" i say, again nothing, im gettin pissed off so i just come out with it. "is it gluten free?".
"um no i dont think so" he sheepishly relpies. hallefuckinlujah its a miracle, limp dick lazarus has risen again. praise jebus or allah, or a bizarre phenomenon during which the subject goes into a state bearing all the hallmarks of death, including the stench, but yet is meerly in a temporary coma. praise whatever you want, praise your shoes.
"im sure your aware that ducks react very badly to regular, common or garden bread. they may look perfectly fine, in fact often bear no symtoms at all. yet it drives them slowly insane to the extent that they begin to eat their own feet, thus rendering them immobile in the water" i say this with such authority and smelliness that im sure he just wants to wet himself. probably out of solidarity, nice gentleman really.
" i, i had no idea, i mean i just assumed, i mean theyre ducks".
"fine observation sir, most commendible, but even if you are the slightebit unsure, i as saint malodorous, patron saint and sworn protector of all water fowl, must confiscate the bag. for the good of ducks, now and forever amen". with those words a duck, not just any duck now, clearly the chieftain of that particular tribe, landed on my head. i discovered later that there was actually the remnants of a sardine there but it worked to such astounding effect that all the old man could do was hand over the bag. breakfast was served.