Saturday, February 14, 2009


He's working hard at killing his liver
in dimly lit dives
frequented by girls
in tight black jeans,
bullets hanging round their waist.

He smokes in alleys
walks down dirty sidewalks
laughs when he's supposed to
knows the right people
orders the right drinks
and is vaguely liked by most.

His disease is a cicada.
Climbs out from underground
once in coon's age.
When it does
it makes a big noise.

He's doing alright
or at least
he is when he's asked.

He's sipping beer
from a cracked glass
with a slow leak.
He'll find the bottom
faster than he expects.

1 comment:

graham said...

most of this one is fairly standard, but the last line is really good.