some more bland poetry, dear reader

it’s nearly midnight

there’s rubbish blown against the pavement

just beyond the little shrine by the streetlight

whose glow is dimmed by hundreds of dead

moths collected in the glass casing that’s cracked

the cracked pavement is dusty

there’s fine dirt heaped in the drain along the road

i feel the dust between my foot and my slipper worn

and between the slipper and the cracked pavement underneath

even the air feels gritty under my eyelids

and tastes crusty on my teeth

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

- yes, i know, too many dingy rooms of late

go on then, gimme a better word, if you so hate

repetition - so like i was saying

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

- there, another repetition. why not, eh? why? -

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

and i see him walking by

he’s well dressed, even a belt on his jeans that seem mostly clean

even the shirt is mostly right

just slightly pulled out at the back; but his walk gives him away

he’s piss drunk, full tight

and then around the corner comes

his friend / brother / boyfriend?

on the bike following him slowly

trying to comprehend

- excuse me, i meant convince -

tryin to convince him to come home

- guess i’ve myself had a bit too much -

trying to convince him to come home, patiently

tolerating, ignoring, even accepting as such

all his self-indulgent ramblings

his furious invective, his allegations of malice

his abuses, wild, lewd and vile

his threats of hurting him and himself

his tirade against love and life

and something about this interaction

presented to me, on a dusty pavement thus

reminds me, even in my drunken simple-mindedness

it reminds me, now lemme get this right, of us

no, not us, of course, not you and me

but maybe you, and bukowski