so we trudge back into the sleazy lairs of our bedrooms
crowns of broken children's paper on our heads
a flash of red smiles,
heads juicily thrown back,
a watery glint in the eye
and the door hits our faces.
we walk the streets with our
heads trailing backwards,
sunlit smoke vapour wiping the buildings
skipping like drunks, like we own the place.
we never will.
wake up at whatever o'clock with
apricot yoghurt-orange hues hitting our faces
cheap cotton sitting on our rough skin,
smudge eyes dirty of yesterday's waterless alcohol night
and choke over someone you picked up from a pavement crack.
a couple fingers in the bed, bent fingernails.
the mattresses rise, fall
this slow life.