HYPERDECANTING

I used to go out at night.
I used to drink at night.

WEINEN IN SALFORD

Here I am, taking in a full glass that forces my cheeks apart & stings,

to release it without relief because to remain poised at all times is debilitating,

but also a backhanded thrill - you puppet power your own private demise: I amongst the crowd.

My forgotten notes & stains don’t lie, but idolise shame.


*
Little lucid portals where powder meetings fixate future meetings that will never happen until next week’s end but you’ll not be there, no.  
& the MDF & the gaslight is just a façade of separation to be beyond the pose, you think on your every-hump-night-hump.  Behind closed rat cubicle door & silenced chat where you’re followed dutifully in when you just want to rest your wine on the stale rings & hover for a burning moment alone.  Then all the mirrors are from handbags & too high & this is when you feel every tiny reflection like phonescreen’s-got-pores right now.
*


I’m still here, pressing tip to print to stretch a thread between word & liquor,

to release it with relief because to let it soak is loosening,

but also a dread blurred glitch - you are locked in something profoundly recurrent: I amongst the crowd.

Tourism or trespassing or hoping, this little ritual.


No-aaaaaah.
No-aaaaaah.
No-aaaaaah.
No-aaaaaah.


Here I am not, closer to the barren appeal before the fear birth by the drunk,

to suppress it without relief because you just want another hit in the din,

but also avoiding footloose - you the floored vapour around stiletto death heat: I run the crowd.

Pillows under knees or in bed, speak for yourself.


*
Come on, come on - pull down the shutter, slaughter the night behind you & get back.  Rest like a Nun in the arms of her God, guilty & warm mouse gnawing at the sugar cubes as big as her head.  Suckle in pleasure & sleep, my darling.  Let me be to you what I want to be to be you not with them.  Anything left behind is sweated out a halluincation of an ice bath in the hot desert mirage the veins in full flow & heart at the edge.  Circle drop & place it on & taste the humour & the helpless & the inevitable drip back in, my feeding routine is the most regular thing right now.

*


I’m still not here, waiting for the dot to dot on the streets less familiar,

to suppress it with relief because you just want to see the rooflights & up,

but also dragging you back - eyes their eyes that attack when they protect: I run the crowd,

Don’t you dare turn at me, wasted night czars.


No-one-noooooos.
No-one-noooooos.
No-one-noooooos.
No-one-noooooos.

down it.