Romanticizing

I wallow in my
own filth and stench,
chain-smoking,
a mug of single-malt whisky
clutched in the hand
that trails ash
on my keyboard
as I type frenetically,
seized by a madness and frenzy
my two-fold intoxication
has induced,
stopping only to suck hungrily
on a fag or light another,
gulp down another mouthful
of aged Scotch or pour myself
another three fingers:
I am a poet and writer

and I would die young.