Wired prose poem

Photo by jochenspieker

The cough syrup and amphetamine
Don’t seem to mix, in nineteen-ninety
Six, and I throw up in the
Communal showers, from

Impurities. The sight
Of the silver fish helped.
Tony, in room eight, no longer
Around. Dragged his corpse

From here to the street,
Fearing prosecution. His room,
Now left ‘as is’, and I am
Alone, again, playing

Sonic all night long, mesmerised
By icons of shapes, palm trees
And coins, upon connection
To the enemy, trying to fix

A family, from a distance,
That cannot be fixed,
Anymore. It’s now five a.m.,
With loud obscurities on

The sound system. John is awake
From this and in no mood
For apologies, being ex-navy,
And full of rum. So I don’t

And carry on.

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