Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Buffoon- Daily Object Writing – Nov 30

He thinks he’s the life of the party, now on can number eleven he’s almost fully tanked. Dancing with abandon, arms and legs flailing like a tank landing on D-Day. The river of alcohol infused into his blood makes him think he’s attractive to women and he keeps sidling up to them , interrupting conversations with bulldozer comments only to be given look of shock & horror as if he’d just emerged from an open pit latrine. The alcohol dulls the rejection to the size of a gnat and he carries on aping around and around. By can number fifteen things are getting way out of control. His semaphor arms and legs are starting to hit photo frames and trinkets off of shelves, peoples patience has become a guillotine ready to lop off his head at the next incident and pretty soon he finds himself sitting out on the curb. The duff, duff from the house party now a muted noise that merges into the starry night he’s looking up to. It’s so simple right now, he doesn’t notice the dewy grass seeping into his clothes. When he wakes he won’t remember any of it, never does, just feeds on the stories of his stupidity – somehow he becomes an eight year old whenever he drinks- somehow he never remembers- but he now does it now out of habit as a way of getting attention- it’s the only attention he ever gets – it’s a sad sort of life he’d rather forget and he does right about can number eight.