Your whole life boomerangs a maze within,
wounding the wallet on your midnight pub-crawl.
Each drowsy step, a star dims, the moon fractures.
You are lost anew amid the nightly fog of one too many.
A lone drifter with no force to sift the now of whom
and where you are, a soliloquist intent on hammering
outdated stories, served cold, no glazed tops or bottoms,
the middle slurs, rushing pub-air where the locals flaccid
ear lobes lick pint rims and worn eyes gape in clefts.
From too many you lent, cried and dried tears among
packs of rugged wolves, their grey sagging coats
and shabby foot dwellings seal the image of defeat.
The acidity of time seeps from rank clothes and pale,
mottled, unwashed skins where booze sheds its weight.
The dank, dark mustiness of it all, mulling below,
feeding on procrastination. The world is a vile bubble;
it should burst, oozing away down a cosmic drainpipe.
The fragments, for you, would not be illuminating shields
for combat, too many battles have been incurred, lost.
You wish to be shot inside a miracle to a new beginning
like a bullet’s silvery pinhead-focus, passing aching stars
to a new orb of water, green and air, there you’d be King,
commanding the troubleshooting ambition to outweigh
the simple reality of the hard-hitting, pain-ridden truth of ‘failure’.
Once you were a prodigy whose mind-waves were sharp
like an eagle’s talons. Now you stagger haze
and sourness, convinced life’s evil eye fixed and
buried you under its gaze, a victim in the wrong space.
Two decades later, you ask a sapling while peeing on its fine roots,
“How and why did it come to this?”