The Party's Over
THE PARTY'S OVER
Empty flagons lie like beached glass whales, floating lifeless on a sea of beer, which washes the faded carpet.
The living room seems to be only a room for the dead
or dying, lying, groaning, shipwrecked, clinging to the furniture like lifebuoys.
The haze of last nights cigarettes hang thick from the walls and crashes into the faces of those foolish enough to struggle for breath.
The morning after the night before creeps slowly toward the afternoon after the morning after, and still the cigarette butts lie lost, to drown in the undrinkable dregs of forgotten drinks.
The party's over.
after what sounds like a particularly good party.
HANGING OUT THE WASHING
A cold chill wind slides easily past the clothesline.
I want to shelter from its dead fingers but a wet sock clings to me like an un-severed umbilical cord.
Inside the kettle calls,
and the phone boils.
A poorly designed peg ruins any chance of early salvation and gives a brittle chuckle on the concrete.
A chequered tea towel I never liked taunts me from the neighbour's lemon tree.
Inside, the fire crackles,
and the television cackles.
The howling storm lifts my shirt and slips down my back to marble my flesh.
A sweatshirt drips on my nose and wraps its clammy arms around me like a lying lover.
I wish I were inside where the kettle, phone, television and fire live cosily.
A graphic example of why I shouldn't be made to do domestic chores.