Last night

Through the hazy reaches of my memory,

Is not too clear.

Try to piece it together,

My head like lead on the pillow

And last night’s clothes sticking to me like sin.

And no, no, it’s too much effort.

-

Go back to sleep.

Later, when I’m resuscitated

By the binmen and the endless crashing of bottles,

I dare to look in the mirror,

And what do I see

But the mascara streaks like warpaint

The wino’s hair

The sticky eyes,

And maybe it’s better to avoid my reflection for a while.

-

And then I promise,

That when I’ve dragged myself back from the shower,

Looking at least semi-human again,

I do glance half-heartedly at the bookshelf.

But well,

I’d have to scrape the dust off first wouldn’t I?

‘What is History?’

What day is it more like.

-

So I know I really shouldn’t

When later I’m asked the fatal question,

‘You coming to the bar?,’

But it’s like my head’s nodding of it’s own accord.

-

We’re given our freedom and told to use it wisely,

But instead we waste our loans

And drink it away with £1.49 Lambrini.