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Poetry

Hangover in Arles

I'm walking the fields
and my head hurts like hell
and the colours
are too blinding this morning
for comfort.

I should have stayed in bed
with some quiet remedy, but yesterday
was begging me to leave my sheets,
away from the splatter on the floor
and the way that the door kept banging.

I lost a painting last night,
the passion I bottle for work
poured out into the atmosphere;
love is a frightening thing
when cocktailed with absinthe.

My friend has gone,
still sticky from the drink
I threw in his face
and my lover's got her letter
I carefully delivered to her brothel door.

I'm sitting on a cut down tree,
I take my hand from my aching head
and try to sign my name
with the drip on my fingers
across the sawn-off stump;

I wonder what they'll call me
when they find me.

Bare Nibs

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Poetry