Poem: Hungover Sun


You have to be careful

In a profession such as mine

When alcohol is the only currency

You’re likely to be paid in

You wake up in the morning

And will the bed sheets to transmogrify

Into the dream woman of your choice

Aliens consulting you with metallic tones

Trickling from angelic, silver tongues;

Stacks of books

Rise up to oppress you

Skinning you with an antiquarian scholarliness

That leaves no cathedral unturned

I suppose I can cope with the nausea

But who couldn’t

After playing witness to my smile?

I fall off a barstool

Throw up a song

And watch the hungover sun

Hesitatingly rise



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