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?



That he wants to die

Right here; right now

In this godforsaken hellhole

The Abaddon sanatorium

Of Europe’s furthest

Eastern boundaries

A given







    1. True – wonder if he kept them! Didn’t get to France/Belgium today for a train ahead of ours got stuck in the tunnel causing 3 hour delays which is no good when only shopping for the day. I still intend to post pics of lots of chocolate when I re-book. The buggers wouldn’t refund my ticket unless I joined a 3 mile long queue with other angry punters as well.

      1. How dare they!! I’m going to go there today when I get off work which, considering travel time should put me there in approximately 3 days (of course considering the stop off in France and Italy…) 3 weeks…er…well if you don’t see me in 3 weeks just assume I’ve…oh, right, why was I going to go there again?

  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 🙂

      1. True – yet I still regret breaking the street ‘ant stamping’ record when I was a kid. 437 in very short time if I recall. Riddled with guilt to this day!

      1. 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 😀

      2. 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!

    1. 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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