The pointlessness of the short distance drunk,
serenading lamp post lovers,
vermilion-eyed, devouring lamb’s death.
Shredded iceberg tumbling
like jilted confetti unkempt.
A famished fox barks harrowing verse,
blue lights pursue raucous exhausts.
Medical scrawl he can’t stomach to summon,
neat Scotch –
a willing recourse.
Ethanol breath sparks
out-of-sync sunlight,
dogshit daydreams stuck on repeat.
Chilling emptiness etched into Mike’s stubble,
seagull hangover bobs on the breeze.
Vacuumed Macallan illusions,
scant crumbs of comfort
semi-conscious, detergent-stenched dread.
Convulsing on tenement steps as the solstice
blinks through the skylight undressed.
Liz wakes under the duck egg ceiling,
frayed bluebottle curtains in song.
Ancient Ketamine cocktail excuses,
now extinguished spit
from his poor overcome pallid tongue.
Jamie Graham is a Scottish writer on the wrong side of 40. Find him at jamiegraham.co.uk
Image via Pixabay
The Cabinet of Heed 