two poems

friday night

GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP
GET FUCKED UP

saturday morning

the god of friday night is dead and
saturday morning i'm left alone with the ghosts in my head.

i will hug my pillows.
i will send apologetic text messages.
i will remember stealing drinks and laugh inwardly
cheeseburgers hold too much appeal
i feel like i could go out and order all of them.

i will have dreams that we tidied the house on friday night.
i will wake up disappointed.

i have never known what isotonic means but i will seek it out
in the hope of some modern witch-doctor cure

blue powerade has come to taste like regret.
but every other flavour is no good.
they are offered, i think, to allow us to revel in the illusion of choice.

no one ever thinks of the environmental cost of a hangover.
probably not even greenpeace.
the oil for plastic to make bottled drinks.
the trees felled for our burger wrappers.
the rainforests that are probably cleared for coffee plantations.

i think about this and it makes me depressed.
i think about this and it makes me hungry and thirsty.
i pray to Anything for the courage to leave my bed.
i pray for a vengeful, Old Testament kinda God to
S M I T E
my neighbours kids.
someone, lend me salvation.