i still preferred Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kije Romance piece.*

i get those nights, drink and write very little,
make it all haiku, enjoy songs and recite
the shrinking of ice cubes in a glass akin to bergs,
and i'm innocent once more
peering into your eyes not bothering to note
something down, and that's when i get my life
back, as i'd like to have imagined it,
i mean it, i get my life back,
i'm not reduced to these caterpillar
and cockroach quirks
readied for a blank stare
of the random passer-by,
i'm there, in the bed, with you,
staring right into you,
not some random on the pavement
watching for fame as if looking
for a photo-booth opportunity
with that inverse leash and dog-collar
of the selfie stick - i.e. walk the dog
spot a celebrity, sounds about the same,
and then there's me in a drunk tag-along tango
prancing past pedestrians on the millennium bridge
from tate modern to st. paul's
with a can of beer in public...
ashen hive and the honey just drips from the eyes
of strangers for the lost chance of a fifteen minute
interlude of shared coffee and
hobnobs, then past the east end and
into taboo territory of essex lasses:
ménage à trois oranges.