I am not a bum

I am not a bum

Neither am I totally

Washed up

But I am half asleep

And in need of a bath

It doesn’t take a genius

To work it out

My mind is on the loose

Again.

The flesh of her bones

Sits well

I thought she looked at me

But it was probably

At the notebook

On the table

The torn pages

On the floor

Floating in slops.

I was in the middle

Of a story

Or how it materialised

In a dirty inn

At the bottom edge

Of the world's End.

I must have written my

Way across town

From north to south.

It was different down here

There was lust

Floating in sweat and dust

It heaved in the air

Sexually deviant,

Darkly dangerous.

She was alabaster

An image

Painted onto my brain

I see her now

Written into my story

She could have been a blonde

But I saw her as a redhead

With freckles

Shapely and friendly

She turned away,

My senses went with her.

It took but a minute

To tear out the page

And throw it into a bucket

With all the other vomit.

The wish, as always

Unfulfilled.

I am nothing if not

A delusional mess

Misappropriated

By illicit thoughts

Stewing in my own juice,

Close to drowning.