a 90s night out in the UK | poem

poem

it’s the getting on it all weekend morning after

blackout drunk memory, text messages sent into a void of group chats

hoping no one remembers something you did that was messed up

but curious about what is known by brain cells, left on the dancefloor.

it’s the dark room where the body lays – wrapped in sheets, feeling proper shit

about itself, about the clock-in job that’s due on Monday.

went too hard at it all night on the lash, only to end up alone in a kebab shop

cold chips refried in seed oil, a red sauce that burnt tongue rots stomach.

water don’t help in the morning, only stirs radiates disorder.

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