I think, tonight, I’m going to drink
until I’m angry enough to fuck someone
who isn’t me.
I’m going to put songs that nobody knows
on the jukebox and I’m the only one singing along
to broken folk, rapist’s rap and Christian rock.
And I’ll probably walk home alone,
cos’ there ain’t enough booze in the world
to make this girl look good.
I drink so that, tonight, I will be able to think,
and trace honesty in slack-lipped expulsion
and string together metaphors,
about the sea.
I’ll walk or drunkenly stagger through my lows,
and trip on nature and uneven dirt,
tracing the pathway behind my terraced estate
a council domain; a charity block.
My shin is a wreckage of blood and of muscle and bone
and it’s an illusion I cultivate and one I’ll unfurl
to make a dull night look good,
as I return to bed sober, and loved,
and I’ll dream of boring things,
of apathy and me.