THE CONSUMMATE HANGOVER

hangover

The megalopolis awakens

A gas guzzler horn jolt

A taxi blast riposte

Then enraged voices

Down below,

Below in the boulevard

 

Startled and bemused

An unsure hand

Guided by squinting eye

Reaches out from the sack

Through the befogged sour

Elements of a fuddled

Circumspect dawn

 

A chink in the curtains

Grey light, yet just sufficient

He strains for the radio switch

Flicks on The World Service

Shortwave transmission

A must for an Englishman abroad

 

Famine in East Africa

Lost Ashes in Adelaide

A French politician

Found out with a whore in

Some place or other

(not that this would be

news in France)

 

A ‘same-o, same-o’ news day

Unless you have about you

A thirst; a hunger and

Live in the Third World

 

Mission accomplished

He takes up his previous

Comatose position.

His mind’s eye recalls

He may not be alone

An exploratory, fretful

Starboard groping confirms

That thankfully she must

Have upped and left

 

That he or the drink

Had erased, or maybe

He never knew

Her name

A misty certainty

A brunette?

 

In his theatre head

An orchestra tuning up.

In his absinth seasoned

Fetid mouth, a

Recycled wasteland

 

Bleary eyed stumble

Bathroom bound

The curse of cheap hotels

Just a sink; a lavatory

Naught else

He would part with

A King’s ransom

For the shower that

Sadly is not to be

 

Notices she left

Her knickers

Comically forfeited

Where she stepped

Out of them

A trophy bestowed?

Unlikely

 

That he wants to die

Right here; right now

In this godforsaken hellhole

The Abaddon sanatorium

Of Europe’s furthest

Eastern boundaries

A given

 

 

 

 

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28 thoughts on “THE CONSUMMATE HANGOVER

  1. The mind takes its flight. This man’s poetry is an exploration, a cerebral feast of fireworks in every swig and Mozart burping Bukowski.

  2. Ah yes, being sober for approximately ten years now does not erase the memory of the mouth tasting like a weekend’s garbage from the Chinese Take-away store… I was never fortunate enough to have ended up with a stranger in my bed, ( I was an anti-social drunk) but mostly I at least made it to my bed, so that’s okay…or is it? Very descriptive poem indeed 🙂

      • Funny you should say that – growing up I often thought of my family like that! And each time you say “Best of luck” I get nervous, wondering why you think I will need it 😀

      • Habit I suppose yet being paranoid at the best of times you’ve got me worried now. Have I unleashed the curse of ‘best of luck’ upon the planet…takes up philosophers thinking stance and regretfully ponders his folly while all the time feeling rising guilt levels!

    • Don’t get depressed whatever you do…the way the mad women we’re buying the house off are carrying on I’m claiming all rights to depression and am not prepared to share it…so there! I shall impart to you the tales of threats and accusations I have suffered soon – it’ll make you laugh if nothing else!

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