The strange yet familiar crescendo of drunkenness,
A dizzying spiral I climb, then stumble
And try to maintain.
Any pillow will do
To end this nonsense.
The next day, a return to
Lucidity via egg and liquids,
Arbitrary words fired off
With no thought.
Sun, Yellow Face!
Fries the synapses
As I lie in parks with fresh grass
And creaky swings.
I have no home for now.
A few bars of music stops
All worrying, and I lie
Content. nothing to be proud of,
And nothing to repent..
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