Sunday, August 14, 2011

Sunday Night is Paranoid

Sunday night is paranoid.
When the alcohol clears out
Taking the ladders but leaving all the snakes;
Unease seeping up my back in creeping shakes.

Sunday night is paranoid.
When the alcohol flees my body
Like islanders escape the volcano;
Shame down my face in lava flows.

Friday night, Friday night is short-sighted;
Friday night has twelve hours to live;
Friday night is a taser, charged;
And a lifetime of sweet static to give.

Friday night and I met briefly
As we passed outside the first club
When the lizard in my head tasted the air
With his tongue and grinned, knowing and smug.

Sunday night is paranoid.
When self-pity is jaundiced and bloodshot
And bile tastes like guilt;
Feeling in the mouth like relationships spilt.

Regret sticks like a night-club floor
And smells of sick sweet booze;
Crude sketches of memory appear uncalled
Like Saturday night tattoos.

Sunday night pins my eyes open
Imagined or remembered films running.
Friday night’s flotsam rising and rising
With nausea waves and waves coming.

Sunday night is paranoid.
Never again will I drink.
Sunday night is paranoid.
What will the rest of the week think?

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