Hangover poem


Face feels
bony
against my palms

Head
several sizes
too big

Will I be missed?

Pub introductions
bathroom people
with dilated pupils

The lady that spent
the night
whose name I don’t remember
and who will never
call me

Will I be missed?

Shower cant be
cold enough
dripping across
my bony face

upset waiters
and bouncers
escorting you
out of a venue

the loneliness
of being detained
by police

something large
and important
not addressed enough
is pent up in there
lurks
seeks that chance

Some times it’s a miracle
we make it back home

is anyone really worth
missing?

Smoking drugs
to alleviate
the hungover

such a juvenile
thing to do

Whoever puts the radiator on
in an incoming heatwave
should burn in hell
is what I think
turning the spin to zero

sometimes it’s amazing
how unscathed we come
from certain years

At the gas station
to buy painkillers
people have never
looked so ugly

Overplayed politeness

those pairs of eyes
don’t really see you
you know
all smiles and all
but you could
as well be dead
all they care

Will I be missed?

Am I worthy
of being anyone’s
longing heartache?

Sometimes
I wish someone
would hit me
across the head
with an aluminium bat
to shut the lights out

nothing will ever compare
to the resting feeling
of a sleep sedated
by opioids

sometimes we’re magnificent
all of us
and kind of beautiful
albeit somewhat funny
dangling like that
on the pendulum
trying not to tip over

Some days

Some days
I think
certain haircuts
should be banned
by law

Some days
I think
they should spend
some fucking money
researching a pill
that can erase a hungover

no one matters
enough
for anyone

I hope that’s true
I think
trying to sleep
through a heatwave
without an air condition
with a drill on
in my skull
through whispering
death-like feelings

trying not to tip over
a supreme effort
dressed as something casual
like a natural tendency

some people
make this life shit
look like a walk
in the park

I hate those people
They’re not my kind

I don’t subscribe
under the same humanity
as them

I think to myself
in an old man’s voice

Sometimes
nothing makes
a lick of sense

Sometimes
I don’t even
feel like trying
anymore
even though
I don’t tell anyone

I hope none of this
makes sense to anyone
otherwise I’m in it
on my own

Laying in the bathtub
the water can not
be cold enough

that police woman last night
a fine specimen
how kind and human

Her dismissing eyes
hurt my feelings
there on the grass
panting
on my ass
and handcuffed

many faces to hell

We’ll know
most of them
by the time
we’re gone