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Ali Drysdale (email)


Upon Going Out

When I walk at night I can still hear the plague
meandering through rotten streets towards my sombre body.
People look like horses and buildings look like people.
The street lights leer and dance jauntily beside me,
blinding and beguiling me,
into a false sense of satisfaction
as I re-enact the birth and death of Christ in one foul movement.

I progress to the bar where it all falls apart
and I find myself somewhere close behind,
watching myself delve through dirty mishaps 
in slow motion from afar.

And so on and so forth,
repeating my sickly actions in any building that will accept me
and trade my filthy lucre for alcohol, ethanol and condoms.
Filthy whores look scarred under neon lights,
and drinks are flowing freely between my conscience and I,
Through Bethlehem and onwards until it gets too much.

Until my body tells me I've taken it too far

and itís time to leave.

On the way back along familiar paths
I talk loudly to myself and inspire a few followers.
Screaming obscenities and throwing fists,
feet and teeth,
in a tangled bloody mess.
Somehow I get back to a crumbling mattress 
stained with blood, piss and broken vows.
But I donít sleep; I drift,
through plains of misery and spite.
The image of a burning wheel,
plaguing me,
like every night.
Every night the same routine,
every night the same bars and the same dreams,
same old, same old.