Anvils pound merrily amid the screams of a siren
circling a roundabout on two and a hundred.
Tires screeching, gears unshifting
I sit up struggling to prise open
uncooperative palpebrae unwilling to lift.
the sudden ascent
of leaden head summons up
even more workmen
with chisel and picks eagerly pounding away.
Clustered in all heretofor horizons
picking up a steady ascending staccato.
Out of the boglike tar heaviness I feel the touch of a hand.
Whose? disembodied yet familiar
oh, but it is mine! I grasp a head that is surprisingly intact
inspite of the vivid sensation of growing cracks.
Meanwhile, somewhere lower
bile ascends, burns and regurgitates.
Swallow, you little twit!
repeating is far worse than keeping things down
despite the upset and the horrible need to bring back up
the joys of the previous night
Now remorse casts a long shadow to that joyous mirth
an evening of excess and carefree imbibe.
Bloody hell.
