well... it's not like i was going
to head into the big city,
stash myself somewhere
conveniently,
    drink & drink with someone
or anyone: or just me...

  it's not like i was heading
to some east London
basement, some art show,
some gallery,
                 some concert,
  some friends getting together
for a meal,

   it's not like cinema was
on the cards either...
          as a Friday i think i was
supposed to do something:

but wrestling with the spaghetti
wriggling "ego"
        against the ping-pong
   of itself (in the reflexive
sense) and off it-self (in
the compound reflective sense):

sly baron of fickleness...
  back into solitary confinement
of a bottle
   and a decent packet of
cigarettes: yellow camels...
and: as ever: the window-sill.

song?
   great gable -
                                   drift...

alternatively?
   30 minutes from the countryside,
and the woods:
but i'm tired of walking
into the woods into the dark
into myself drinking
cheap beer
maddened chess
shuffling feet,
stomping,
              the shirt being
taken off:
   pale skin in the moonlight...
finishing the night
off with a knockout from
some cheap whiskey...

    i'll refine myself:
i said to my self...
    yes: my, my and whatever
the "self" is, or a:

                 play-dough,
******* on sand in the sandpit,
because:
   sometimes it's so
impossible to wait
for either sea or rain;
there: hey presto
                   a pharaoh of ******
on sand.

- yes, the great big city,
a waste of a Friday night
staying cooked-up
   in a room...
       hell...
            if this is not a refinement...
i don't know what is...

Elgin whiskey...
   25ml in glass on ice...
cigarette lit -
          1 minute delay...
gulp...
      20cm from the end
of a cigarette
25ml in glass on ice...
1 minute delay:
throat on the guillotine...

music playing...
sifting through poetry...
   a hard copy of
something profound
by my side: a reality check...

well: bypassing
publishers is to say:
no self-critique or
              what?
                  unless a poem
is equivalent to a bus-fare...

is this a sort of
bus-fare?
    is anyone going from
(a) to (b)?

me? i'm getting off
somewhere around...

                    (n)ow:

before i start spewing
the details of:
   whiskey for the interludes...

and yes...
that michelob ultra
    beer...
    worked a miracle
     with that homemade
burger and chips...

some beers are better
drank with a meal...
esp. those light beers...

the whiskey?
thank you: a pat on
the back...
                      and an
invisible sight of...
a cushion
made from bundled
coils of burnt orange
peels...

    a pinch of
lemongrass
in the air...

and a candy-sweet
vanilla underlay
entwining
itself around my
tongue:
   as a prolonged
                     aftertaste...

yes... me in the big
****' worth of a city on a Friday;
i much prefer
this solitary confinement
       in a bottle
of whiskey.