Young recluse morphing into old Hermit
Well, obviously I was drunk -
There was grass in my hair
and I had walked into the local newsagent
unknowingly still smoking.
And when I undressed Summer from her plastic
cover - my Girlfriend of the Month, ash got stuck
in my eyes from the on-fire adder sagging
out my mouth - I needed both hands
to work the glossy pages.
( It was six a.m. and my teeth had a twilight
sheen from the black Sambucca
and my fingers were yellow with cigarette
venom; maybe some piss. )
' Marcus, what in-blazes you doin, this time ? '
The same old host, mouth barelled
at me from behind the counter.
' Aw, shit, sorry, Mr Haddon, '
I smog-splutter, and flick the smoke out the door.
Seemed like a damn good shot. Maybe not.
' Just get what you come're for. '
' Sure thing. '
He has my loose-leaf smokes ready
as I drop the mag and a bottle of Coke into the bag.
I spray the bench with shrapnel.
' Your father'd be so... '
' Screw you, Haddon, see ya tomorrow. '
' Marcus, go home. '
But I'm not ready to go back to my apartment;
There's mice shit in the dishes, clothes in the sink,
stale odours in the sock drawer, and no one.
So I walk down the grey, middle finger of footpath
toward the sun that is already an oven light
turned up to - fuck you.
' Morning, ' I say, to some beady-
browed lady, power-walking by me.
If she'd've stopped, then I'd've said
I didn't mean to stumble into her; I took some odd
steps to avoid stomping those green ants
she just god-crushed.
Gottaccount for something, right?
