I used to go out at night.
I used to drink at night.
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.
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.
Weinend in Salford