PARTY, PART 6

and these heart-drain drills rattle on

a staccato mash on city skin

pummel out a new architect picture

of 

transport

and

orange brick canal

drills been rattling in Kings Cross

since the dole years

when 

i lay on a sofa bed fried and died awake in dawns stare

and

hungover

beyond

sane reason/beyond puke and mending

to

rise

and shop without shoes

and laugh hilarious at the wooden pub revelation

rolling 

whiskey

bottles

across the wobbly floor

- i’m thinking back/thinking far away

sipping and smoking at the secret midnight window

rather 

than 

the 

fresh branded memories

that 

tonight

shoved up my boozy brain

inside the dark heart of 

party. . .