Whiskey-ripped somewhere
Between Bukowski and the I-don’t-fucking-know
Star struck downed beware
I am not speeding to the red angry in place
Cats mouth their warnings
you are a bit of a bell end right in your face
Late night detachment
Bourbon enchantment
I am not wobbly and I don’t fucking know
this is the bit in the cartridge you must replace
Late night decampment
Late night revampment
Between Bukowski and the imaginary place
Is all the rest of I don’t know.

Here the perceptive 
Weight beside me.
I don’t glance up 
from the book.
Reading slowly for
The loneliness.
Washed dry nose
Explores my fingertips.
This dull cold day
Light happens into
And defines a room.