The morning AfterMature

I peel myself from the floor,
trace hazy footsteps,
cast precariously across rooms,
from nights before.

Filling lungs,
Chunks of wet asphalt,
Soberingly refreshing,
Drowning momentarily,
in oxeygen, invading capillaries,
Ice cool pitchforks,
poking around for assasins,
in straw bales.
on white blood cell carts,
On rickety cobblestone veins.

Hangover. wretles with my head,
a cranium ring, the bell splits,
my head in two, brains cascade,
over garden hedges,
as i drag my legs,
wich drag my feet,
wich drag my punch drunken,
lacking function,
regrets homewards.

Onto tackling,
the memories,
flingin wild blows,
through a hazy mist,
at a transparent picture,
motion, people rolling,
through the party tide,
beer and spliff in hand.
The tools of conversation.
The enemys of the fabled,
disabled brain cell.

Number 37 looms,
Inbetween its cowering,
neighbours of 35, 39.
36 watches safe from,
across the road.
The in-escapable,
hands shaking,
given last nights,
happenings away.
The bell rings,
four whole seconds pass...

A pull, i almost fall,
expecting a behmoth of towering,
smoke and flame,
catapulting questions,
"where were you last night!?,
"How much have you had!?!"
"do you do this on purpose!?!",
open eyes further,
almost untill there,
are no eyelids remaining,
Focus on the mellow,
uncaring frame in the door,
"alright will, mums out,
you look shit."
"shut it" i say dont take the piss.
"Whatever", mumbles little sis.

The End

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