Shall I mourn your decline with some ad-hoc wine?
or perhaps sip from black tower in my darkest of
hours? Cornershop cocktails bind the poor drinker
the lonesome celebrator; bind them to park bench parties,
and bandstand barnies, wild stuff amongst the pond lilies
and hyper green duck shit. Charity coats from the dead
flap about, whilst drunks on missions, go pissing, on the
lawn green-green, of the lawn green bowls club. And
how I remember your magic woman hands casting
spells upon my thighs, as we shivered the ice off the special
brew surprise, in that bus station that charged for a hard floor
and a gin. You serviced me through four layers:
“My special half hour,” I called it, “a luke-warm-wank,”
you called it, and we laughed into unconsciousness.
Next day we meet for cocktails, same time, same place,