Chuck

From the revised book – with the printer – too late for edits 🙁 Ho hum.


Chucked out from

The Bar Tropicana karaoke

After midnight and too much rum.

My nose feels broke.

 

Bouncing off rain running alleyway walls

I staggered home

When I slammed my front door

The clock crashed to the kitchen floor.

 

It leans half-cock, propped against

The ‘World’s Best Dad’ trophy

I bought for my kids to award to me –

So many years ago.

 

The clock shows around two

But it’s probably slow as the sun is rising. 

And while the day unwinds its eyes

Mine are heavy-lidded. Closing fast.

 

There’s blood redding my shirt

Dripping from my busted nose

And a lump at the back of my head.

From some other hurt I never felt.

 

Needing space to stand my glass of bootleg rye.

I sweep the table clear of mouse droppings,

Stale bread and cheese crumbs, nail clippings.

Watching them shimmering in the sun’s rays –

Diamonds falling to the threadbare carpet floor.

 

My head is running low and slow.

I’m wrestling thoughts of god or gods.

And life and death.

And what I should and shouldn’t do.

Where I don’t or do belong.

What to say and does it matter anyway?

 

I thought I’d pray but that came out wrong,

 

“Goddamn you, god!

Why won’t you give me a sign?

What did I ever do to upset you?”

 

And my glass drains of rye

And the glass fills again

And the sun stands tall

And the light hurts my eyes

And I roll a fag from ashtray butts

And light it from the stove

And the smoke buzz swirls my brain

And the walls melt

And the room dances

And the chair rocks

And the table dances

And the clock ticks

And the sun dances

And dazzles my eyes

And I… slowly… 

 

Draw back from the dawn.

 

I wake, sprawled over the table.

My top set’s dropped out in sleep,

Plastic gums and tobacco-stained teeth

Puddling in blood and drool.

 

The landing toilet is blocked and stinks.

I shift plates to the side of the sink and pee.

 

And lean over cups to upchuck my guts.

And cough and retch.

And cuff my mouth dry.

And, beneath the sink, reach.

For the next to last bottle

Of what passes for rye.

Stored for emergencies

Beside bottles of bleach,

Harpic and Jeyes Fluid

 

The clock shows two-ish

But it’s probably fast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© coolhermit 2017
Views: 293
critique and comments welcome.

Leave a Comment

2 Comments on "Chuck"

Notify of
Andrea
Member

My best mate is Irish – no good asking for Jaysus fluid…

wpDiscuz
Flag Content