A Night On The Tiles (Literally)

A Poem by Luke Timms

Leave the drinking hole to cold air around about three
To my surprise the roads are apocalypse almost free
Consuming the rest from my cup of banishing memories
Then rummage through my pocket for smokes, the very remedy
I sway backwards as if a tree in high winds
Then re-cooperate by shifting myself forward, aided by bins
I take one step forward, out of my gullet flies the drink
“This is going to be one dismal walk” to myself I do think
I soldier on forward realising it’s getting colder as I do
‘Hang about’ I mutter, ‘Did I leave the pub without my shoe?’

Reaching the door, I crash a mighty big thud follows
Why do they make this doors sound so bloody hollow!
I reach to my pocket once more, this time for the key
Swaying back and fro again, muttering aimlessly
Like a drunken virgin I try to penetrate the keyhole
Then darkness of the memory, the drink surely stole

Eyes shot open like a gunshot at the dead of night
Pupils adapt to the newly born sunshine, painfully bright
In the foetal on the kitchen floor, next to beers cans, scattered freely
With a broken nose I wonder, ‘who or what beat the crap outta’ me?’
Sitting up now, did my brain just smash against my skull
Score so far; hangover one, me nil
Back down to floor, eye lids back hugging my eyes to nirvana
Dehydration rears its ugly head, my mouth is drier than Botswana
Crawling to the sink, I drag myself up to the basin
Filled with water, I drop my whole head in
I collapse to the floor, breathy deeply as I curse this nightmare
Never again, I vow, to enter The Slug n’ Hare