desperate
for
a
drink
like an empty bellied winter bird
falling on a breadcrumb in the snow
i walk fast
and talk loony
avoiding
all
subjects
anywhere near real
cos something happened
hurtle into any pub
empty middle of the day bricked up window joints
and
open fire tourist guest ale taverns
and
buy
us
all
beers without asking
tired of the weight of the bags
and
the thing that happened
i dont know who knows or how much anyone knows
about the thing that happened
and my wild mad head doesnt know
either
except
that
somethings happened
buy scotch deliriously in supermarket queues
and
drink it in hurricane gulps from bottle while the glasses chill
in some afternoon flat
talking
about
anything
thats is not really real
channel hopping the tv
and
murdering and swearing
on the play station
while
they
all
cook
in
the kitchen
and its never enough never enough never enough
till
i
hobo-crash on the cheap and rough rented carpet
listening
to london trains and planes
rattle and rough
at exact intervals
and
then i run away at dawn
forcing my hangover to eat greasy food
before
early
trains
east
and
the something that happened looses its grip
in
motion and solitude
and
the cool fizz
of
cold
morning
beer
bought in cans from the station shop
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