Red-eyed, stumbling home between shadows
of what if’s, and what the fuck for’s,
we trip up and down the curbs,
melting into the sound of gravel underfoot,
at midnight, when no fucker is around to ruin it.
Here, we cross a disturbing sea of
broken streetlights on darkened pavements,
still swaying from empty road detours
and chip shop lights keeping their shit together.
I like to think they stay open for that reason,
pointing you in the direction of home,
whispering screams into what’s left of you,
“It’s that way, you drunken fuck.”
Still, voices from the jitties tempt you,
echoing distant jingles of cat collars and
rolling beer bottles on metal fences,
seasoned with anticipation, attempting
to honour insomniac open signs,
though confrontation feels more alive.
And we’ll take the jitty route anyway,
because we love the shadows
of ‘what if’s, and ‘what the fuck for’s.
We die of excitement at the thought.
Here, we cross a disturbing sea.
No fucker is around to ruin this.
No fucker is around to ruin me.