drunk.

.

I keep spilling the drunken insurance pint across the floor.
It’s the third time now,
And all the consolations I’d offered for morning
Are dribbled in pieces on the carpet.
There are utterances which I’d planned for coherency
In some misplaced world of port and eyelashes
That old plan to save the world
And get laid
Thrice over.

What else?
There is soup which needs blendered
And issues which need addressed
But all this is more relevant at a time that is not
Now,
Or three am.

So yes, the small hours;
They reek of cigarettes and half considered ideas
Which will come to fruition
Nearer 4pm
When my day awakens.