La Costa Rasa

No Context

The constants fade
The new retreats’
Orphaned ideas
Of lucid
Near-life-experiences
Until they dip under
The cheap P. O. S. bunting
Streaming across my périphérie

Fuck you Shakespeare
For pre-empting

I am. Or I am not
Here in the sober space
Of seven drinks in

I speak with politeness
Slipping between my mangled Leeds
and RP North London
A familiar seat and
Familiar acknowledgement.

This is where we come to not die
To not break our front
To enable the pettiness
That fledges to policy
For others’
Pay grades and post codes adrift.

This is where I think of her
With an outsider clarity
And wish her more damn luck
Than I could muster.

Indeed, I swear

She can have mine -
Take
Eat

I will miss you so much
That I think I must

Stop

Talking

Now.